St Michael and the Damned Apostle
by UsuakariTOT
Summary: Days from death: Matt reflects. Mello smolders. Fate looms before them, an unforked road charging unflinchingly towards destruction. But in the Vally of the Shadow of Death they fear no evil, for these sinners walk together and together they will burn.
1. The Brink

**Warning:** **Description of sex and Mello's foul mouth are the main reasons for this story's mature rating. **

**Disclaimer:**** Death Note and all related characters do not belong to me...a fact I lament greatly.**

* * *

"_And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock."_

_**-Edgar Allan Poe ("The Masque of the Red Death")**_

**Part One: The Brink**

* * *

"I got you something."

Matt tears his gaze away from the Nintendo long enough to register Mello standing in the doorway. The package hits Matt's chest with a thud, causing him to drop the game. Blank screen. Batteries spill out upon the floor.

"What the hell is this?"

_I was on the final level._

"Come with me. You can open it later."

Leaving the package in a paper-swathed lump on the floor, Matt follows his boss and fellow genius into the bedroom. This is where the real work is done. No videogames here. Only high caliber processors and screens projecting not two-dimensional fantasy worlds or pixilated roadways, but data. Little white numbers against a black screen. Millions of codes. Each represents a name, a place, an event. Over ten years worth of data on the Kira Case. Everything Mello, L, and even Near have been able to dig up.

Matt catalogs it all meticulously. It's gotten to the point where he doesn't sleep at night. His mind is too full of numbers. Always flashing, white on black. This is his masterpiece—his magnum opus. Figures. Documents. A compilation of data so vast it rivals that of every major security force on the planet. Matt has never been artistic in the traditional sense. His poor sense of vision renders him incapable of perceiving depth in a painting, and the concept of complimentary colors confuses him.

Hell, even Matt's nicotine-choked vocal chords won't carry a tune.

But he is an artist. Painting in keystrokes, his medium is the computer screen—it's light reflecting cold and sterile off his goggles and too-pale skin. As with any artist, his work consumes him, and…as with any artist…it torments him as well. There's always more information to be found. He only has to dig deeper, hack another file, discover a connection overlooked the first twenty times he searched for it. Then, just maybe…

"_This isn't enough, Matt. I'm going to need more information."_

Doesn't Mello get it? There is no more information, at least not information that can be accessed through broken passwords or hidden cameras. Matt is a genius in his own right, but even he can't hack into the mind of a murderer. Statistics are what he understands. Facts. Percentages. Ratios. Constants Matt can cope with. It's the variability of human nature he finds disturbing.

"_Your detachment is costing you rank, Matt. If you don't learn to speak up soon, you'll be out of the running for good."_

"…_I know…"_

"_You could be one of the best if you focused more on your studies."_

"_I know."_

"_It's a lack of drive and social skill that is holding you back."_

"_I know."_

"_I'm very frustrated, Matt. You're at the bottom of the class, yet Watari has informed me that you are one of the brightest pupils currently residing at Wammy's."_

"_I know."  
_

"_Then why won't you work harder? Even L consents that in some ways your capabilities rival those of Near."_

"…"

"_Well?"_

"_Roger, can I leave now?"_

"_MATT!"_

"_It's just that…I'm on the last level of my game. I need to concentrate."_

"_It pains me greatly to know you're wasting your intelligence on mindless garbage like those videogames!"_

"…_I know…"_

What Roger didn't realize was that Matt _needed_ those games. He still does. The real world makes him sick. Its cruelty…its pointlessness… Matt is weak. He doesn't like the sight of blood. When they showed the overdue exhumation of Naomi Misora's corpse on Sakura TV, he became violently ill…threw up all over the bathroom floor.

Mello held back his hair the whole time…mocking him relentlessly.

It's not that Matt can't relate to the real world. He just doesn't have the stomach for it. Facts rarely bleed, and they never betray you.

"I have a new plan."

Mello's talking. It's probably important.

"We're going to detain Takada."

_Why?_ Matt doesn't bother asking. Whatever the reason, he'll follow through until the end.

"I don't have all the details worked out, but we'll definitely initiate sometime this week."

The Mello Matt knew as a child is not the same Mello standing before him now. To keep them straight, Matt has separated him into two entities: the Mello Before and the Mello After. Before meaning before Mello blew himself half to pieces. After meaning…well, the scar is proof enough.

The Mello Before was selfish, brilliant, hasty, cruel, a bit of a narcissist. He used people like tissues, disposing of them once they'd served their purpose. However, he always got away with this. There was something about the Mello Before that was addictive—not deceptive, for what you saw was always what you got—but magnetic in a way that made this truth not matter all that much.

The Mello After—_the Mello Now—_is still selfish, still brilliant and rash and breath-catchingly cruel. His narcissism has diminished somewhat, but the compelling volatility of his nature remains intact. He still uses people. He's still…_a bit of a prick_. However, the Mello After has something the Mello Before never had. Humanity. Even if he won't admit it, even if it's more a symptom of post-traumatic shock rather than actual character building, the failure of his first attempt to keep the Death Note has made Mello somehow touchable.

And this tangibility, this Mello that is almost even remotely dependant on someone else, is Matt's fault completely.

"_Work for me. I'll pay you good money."_

"_I know."_

"_You won't have to interact directly with the Mob members. Except for me, of course."_

"_I know."_

"_I want you to install a detonation system in each of my hideouts. You're the only one I trust to do this without risk of blowing me up."_

"_I…Mello, are you stupid? You can't blow up a fucking building while still inside it!"_

"_I can if you design the bomb layout and ignition sequence. You understand everything about controlled explosions."_

"_No, Mello. There's too much room for error."_

"_It's still possible. Come on, Matt! We've always been friends."_

"…_I know."_

"_I wouldn't trust you with something I thought was beyond your capabilities."_

"_I know."_

"_You'll do it, then."_

"_No fucking way."_

Mello hadn't stopped at this. He just carried on without Matt, knowing full well that without the redhead's expertise, things could go downhill very quickly. And they did. And Mello has the scars to prove it.

Matt hates himself for this. Every day he sees those scars, and every day he thinks that if he had given into the blonde's demands, if he had just taken a chance and designed the fucking detonation sequence, then perhaps…

* * *

"…_oh fuck…oh fuck…please, God, don't…Jesus fucking Christ…"_

"_B-be quiet, Mello. I need…I need to…"_

"_Be quiet?! Don't you tell me to be quiet you motherfucking asshole! I get blown to fucking hell and all you can say is…"_

"_Just calm down!" Matt secures his shoulder more firmly beneath the crook of the blonde's uninjured arm and begins leading him towards the bathroom. What is he supposed to do? Mello just…just shows up at his apartment, and now…he can't take him to a doctor. They'd be arrested, and Mello…Mello would kill him if that happened. But what other option does he have? Every Mafia doc within a hundred mile radius had been blown to shit by…_

"…_you fucker…" Mello groans as Matt helps him remove the remnants of his clothing. "…you motherfucker…Matt…this is your fault…"_

"_Mello, stop! Please, I need to find a doctor!"_

_Wait. Why can't he do it? Sure, Matt, has never __**really**__ been of L status, but he's still a Wammy kid. All he needs is information from an online medical journal. Following instructions. Matt's always been good at that._

"_Hold on Mello. I'm checking the computer."_

"_Computer?!" The blonde's eyes seem to bug out of his head, blue-white beetles fit to burst. "I can't believe you…Matt, you fucker…I'm dying and you're gonna check the fucking computer?!"_

_Matt doesn't bother answering. With the amount of pain Mello is in, he's liable to say anything. What matters now is helping him. _

…_b-u-r-n-n…t-t-r-e-a-t-m-m-e… "Damnit!" The redhead backspaces feverishly, trembling fingers barely able to come down upon the keys. …b-u-r-n…t-r-e-a-t-m-e-n-t…He hits 'Enter' with a sigh of relief._

"_I found something!" Laptop tucked beneath his armpit, Matt returns to the blonde's side._

"_Oh, that's just fucking great, Matt! I feel…FUCK THAT HURTS!"_

_Matt flinches but continues to drag Mello towards the shower. "Cold water will sooth the pain. Also, we need to clean your wounds so they don't become infected."_

"_Water will sooth the pain?! Hell, give me some fucking OxyContin!" _

_Ignoring the string of angry German that follows this outburst, Matt begins to compare Mello's wounds with the pictures of those online. While the expanse of injury is frightening, the actual severity of the blonde's burns isn't nearly as bad as he thought. Second and third degree mostly. No fourth. Mello won't need skin graphs. _

_Which was a damn good thing because, as smart as he is, Matt sure as hell can't do everything._

"_Matt! Goddamnit! What the fuck are you doing to me?"_

"_I have to clean your…"_

"_Stop…stop it! You're hurting me, Matt!"_

"_I'm sorry." And he really is. Matt can't begin to imagine extent of the unholy agony his friend is being subjected to. Mello has always been a drama queen, but when he says something hurts, he means it. _

_A brutal two hours later finds Mello lying on Matt's bed, lost in a haze of codeine and smoldering cigarettes. Matt has treated his burns as best he can. It took him an entire roll of gauze and three tubes of Neosporin, but he did it. He isn't third for nothing._

"…_Matt…"_

_The blonde gazes at him confusedly, the non-bandaged side of his face pulled into a frown. _

"_Don't speak. You're tired."_

"…_Matt, I…I…damnit…I want…" Mello reaches out helplessly. Without thinking, Matt takes his hand. "…Matt…Mattie, I…you're not a…you know I'm not…"_

"_Shh." The redhead sighs and stubs out his cigarette on the surface of the nightstand. "I know. Now go to sleep."_

_Mello nods and settles back into the pillows. He only ever listens to orders when he is sick or delirious, and, clearly, he is both._

_Why else would his unsettling eyes be so glassy and strangely bright?_

* * *

"So, Matt, what do you think? Matt…MATT!"

The shorter youth jerks in surprise. He blushes, glancing up sheepishly at Mello.

"Sorry, I…"

"…wasn't listening? Well, _fuck_, Matt! What the hell am I paying you for?"

Mello's only saying this because he's irritated. They both know that money stopped being an issue long ago. He runs a hand through his hair.

_Cool off, Mihael. Think more like L. _

That's what he used to tell himself. However, Mello knows that he will never think like L, that he will never act like L, that he will never _be_ L. He is Mello. Second to Near, but first in ambition…probably.

"Listen. I want you to hack the surveillance system of NHS. Also, break in and set up cameras in Takada's house. You will be responsible for knowing her whereabouts at all times."

"What about when she's not at home or work?"

"At those times you will tail her personally."

"Are you serious?" Behind his goggles, Matt looks pissed. He hates going outside. He hates being around large groups of people. Mello knows this, but there's no one else to do the job.

"You don't have to talk to her. Fuck, you better _not_ talk to her! Just keep an eye on what she's doing."

Matt is the only person Mello will treat like this, the only person who won't get a bullet in the brain for talking back to him. Standing there in his ugly striped sweater. Pouting like he did when they were little. _He's almost cute,_ Mello thinks. He isn't angry. Matt will give in like he always does.

"Fine, but you fucking owe me."

"Whatever." Mello smirks. Being around Matt makes him feel young again. He can forget Kira, forget Near, forget his years in the mafia. Sometimes he can even forget the hideous scar that runs across his face. Whenever Matt looks at him—without fear, without disgust, as if he's almost normal—Mello feels good somehow.

The blonde no longer takes feeling good for granted. Matt's the closest to Heaven he'll ever get, and God knows Mello has seen enough of Hell.

"That's all for now. You can take the night off if you want." With a wave of the hand, Mello dismisses both Matt and the memories nagging at his already fraying sanity.

Neither leave. One sprawls out on the cable-choked bed. The other is more discreet, burying itself with every intention of resurgence. Unable to help himself, Mello is drawn to that which is more accessible. Made In China stripes, ugly jeans, hair dyed Ruby Rush clashing with skin so pale the veins shine through it.

Don't even get him started on the goggles.

But Matt's absolute lack of taste is more than made up for by his resourcefulness, his intelligence, the fact that he could have been number one but isn't.

Mello liked him from the get-go.

* * *

_Every Saturday, the orphans at Wammy's House go on an outing. Sometimes they visit the shire towns and moors of England's countryside. Sometimes famous historical sites— Stratford-upon-Avon, Oxford, Stonehenge. On this Saturday they are visiting Liverpool. Mello stares out the window of the private car, unimpressed by the grimy sidewalks and ivy-choked rooftops. He should be studying, __**beating**__ Near…but they wouldn't let him take his books._

_It's Against The Rules. _

_They are passing through a nasty neighborhood on their way to where The Beatles—famous enough even for socially-deprived geniuses to have heard of—were shipped off to America. Everything is dirty. Every now and then Mello spots a homeless person. Some are silent, a pile of rags on the doorstep. Others scream, wave empty soup cans and ask for money. One is carrying a sign._

_Let He Hoo Is With Out Sin Kast The 1__st__ Stone. _

_A little boy in a big coat converses with two men at the entrance of a public park. He looks about the same age as Mello—twelve—and has ratty clothes and skin the color of old socks._

_This boy is the most interesting thing he's seen all day. _

"_Can we stop the car?"_

_The driver peers at him through the rearview mirror and shakes his head. "I'm afraid not."_

"_But I want to go to that park."_

"_Maybe next time."_

_Eyes glittering a bit too dangerously for a twelve-year old, Mello returns his attention to the window. He memorizes every building, every empty lot, every turn they take on the cobbled and cracked-asphalt streets._

_Why is the badly-dressed boy talking to those men? _

"_Alright, we're here." The car stops, and Mello follows the children accompanying him out onto the street._

_He starts walking. Doesn't look back. Doesn't give anything away. Confident in his own stealth, in his own invisibility, Mello makes his way back to the park. It's about half a kilometer away, zero point three two miles. _

_One kilometer equals one thousand meters. One thousand meters equals zero point six two one miles. Divide this by two. Drop the last digit to allow for error. _

_The boy is by himself now, sitting on a bench just outside the entrance of the park. He fiddles with something in his pocket._

"_What's that?"_

_He combats the blonde's glaring gaze with one of mild curiosity. Green eyes blink behind a shock of dirty, brown hair. _

"_Just a watch."_

_Perfect English with a trace of a Polish accent. He holds the Rolex up for Mello's examination. "Nice one, isn't it?"_

_A broad, white face offers the blonde its own scrutiny. The second hand ticks in warning._

"_Did you steal it from those men?"_

"_Steal it?" Flushing in indignation, the freckles on the boy's sickly face are suddenly very prominent. "Of course I didn't steal it! I'm just fixing it for them."_

"_Fixing it?" Mello laughs—a high, boyish, menacing sound. _

"_Well not __**fixing it**__, I guess. I'm just making some adjustments."_

"_What kind of adjustments?" Even more interested than before, Mello furrows his brow at the disagreeable watch._

"_I'm going to install a special device. Then, the next time someone tries to adjust it, the watch will explode."_

_A thrill shoots up Mello's spinal chord. This isn't a normal boy he's found. No, he's a special one. This boy belongs at Wammy's!_

"_Why would you do that?"_

"_Because if I don't, those men won't give me money."_

"_They're paying you to turn a watch into a bomb?"_

"_Yup." _

"_It's probably illegal."_

_The boy echoes. "…probably…"_

"_That bomb's going to be used to kill someone."_

"…_I-I know…"_

_One moment detachment. The next, tears. A mixture of saline dribbles down the boy's sallow cheeks. The tracts of clean skin left behind more garishly white than before. Suddenly, the potential Wammy kid is reduced to a sniveling twelve-year old. _

_Wiping his snotty face on his hand, the boy stares desperately at the ticking watch. As with Mello, it stares back. No sympathy. No trace of absolution. Black on white. Good versus evil. A perfectly measured revolution in sixty perfectly measured ticks. _

_Elegant by nature is cruelty. Cruel by nature is man. Somewhere in between lies the innocent sadism of children._

_But this boy is far from innocent, and as he continues to sob, Mello feels a bit of empathy. He knows what it's like to cry, to commit an unforgivable, unavoidable sin. _

_To run out of options. To truly understand the concept of Kill Or Be Killed._

"_You can come with me, if you want."_

_Wordlessly, the boy takes his outstretched hand. He doesn't ask why Mello's doing this. He doesn't ask where Mello's taking him. He doesn't even ask Mello for his name. He just follows, freckles and green eyes and shaggy brown hair ugly compared to the blonde's golden, blue-gazed brilliance._

_Two damned creatures holding onto each other. They take salvation into their own hands._

_The Rolex is left gleaming on the sidewalk._

* * *

"You really think this is safe? Kidnapping Takada?"

It's a rhetorical question. Mello answers anyway. "Of course not. Actually, there's a pretty good chance we won't make it out of this alive."

_Then why are we doing it?_

Matt doesn't ask this. To Mello's infinite relief, it's just not his style. Instead, he lights up a cigarette and stares contentedly at the broken ceiling fan. His goggles glint in the light of the computer monitors. Mello sits beside him on the mattress. He stares down Matt's body—arms thrown out, legs straight. He looks like an upside down propeller, an inverted cross. Mello runs a hand through his sinfully vibrant hair.

"Did I tell you I got my picture back?"

"From Near?" Matt allows his head to rest on Mello's thigh. "Glad I wasn't there to see that conversation."

"Yeah." _Me too_.

The artificial sheen of Matt's hair is mesmerizing to the blonde. Through his gloves, he imagines he can feel its softness.

"Are you worried?" Matt has pulled back his goggles. His startling green eyes stare up at him in wonder.

"No." Mello lies. "Worrying is useless."

Smiling with infuriating understanding, Matt reaches up to Mello's ragged mop of blond. "You have a knot."

Mello's hair used to be beautiful. Bleached to perfection. Cut in a precise, stylish line. But it came in darker after the fire, coarser as well. Mello hasn't bothered to dye or condition it. He hasn't even cut it since the accident. His hair hangs in his face now, ragged and concealing.

"There." Matt grins as his boss's bangs fall into place. "That's better."

"Thanks." Mello's lips rearrange themselves laboriously into a smile as he pulls his leg from beneath Matt's neck and shrinks cautiously away. He can't help it. The situation is getting too…

"Anytime."

Green eyes follow Mello out of the bedroom, but he doesn't look back. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't.

The crucifix lies too heavy on his chest.

* * *

**-TOT (I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. This is my first Death Note fic, and, though it follows an often used timeframe, I'm really trying to make the story and characters unique. If you have any questions or comments about my writing, please don't hesitate to leave me a note (…haha…note…okay, I'm a dork…). All reviews will be greatly appreciated.**


	2. The Used

**St Michael and the Damned Apostle**

_El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora Reina de los Angeles sobre El Rio Porciuncula_

_(The Town of Our Lady Queen of the Angels on the Porciuncula River)_

_L.A._

**Part One: Used**

* * *

Four days from death:

Matt ambles up the street, maintaining a stringent 50 meters between himself and Kiyomi Takada while punching buttons on his Nintendo DS. It's cold, and his vest—cheaply made—isn't doing shit to block out the wind. He ran out of cigarettes three blocks ago. His feet hurt and…

"…_now what's she up to?"_

The speaker in his ear causes Mello's voice to sound high and obnoxiously tinny.

"Nothing. Shopping. Seriously Mello, I…"

"_Quit complaining, Matt! This is damn important, and I can't have you sulking around like a fucking child! Do you understand?"_

"…yeah." The redhead heaves a sigh and stares up at the graying sky. He wonders if it's going to rain. "I get you."

"Good. Be home at six. I picked you up some cigarettes."

"Thank…"

The line goes dead before he has the chance to finish.

Sighing again, Matt redirects his attention to Takada. She's entering a fancy hotel; this is the second time she's done this in the past three days. This is problematic because Matt can't sneak in after her. Planting bugs is also out of the question. The woman is at least smart enough to change hotels. This leaves Matt with another problem: a very pissed off Mello.

"_She went into another hotel? Fuck! How much do you wanna bet she's talking to Yagami?"_

"Should I return to the apartment?"

"_What are you, Matt? Stupid? Of course you should! How the hell will you be useful standing out there on the street?!"_

Ripping out the earpiece in aggravation, Matt begins making his way back to their residence. Mello is his best—his only—friend, but that doesn't stop the redhead from acknowledging that he's a bit of an asshole.

He curses as the clouds above hemorrhage, allowing torrents of rain to bleed down onto the city streets. Shoving the DS safely into his pocket, Matt picks up the pace. Weather is one of the main reasons he abhors spending time outdoors.

The other reason is crowds. Crowds make him nervous. He feels as if the people are watching him, tailing him, closing in on him from all sides. It's a paranoia Matt's had since childhood. Something he finds deeply unsettling.

Not that Mello gives a shit.

Finally reaching the cruddy apartment building that serves as headquarters—_sorry, Mel, but the SPK's got you beat when it comes to lairs_—Matt begins the laborious trek up six flights of concrete stairs. Smoking and lack of exercise have left him grossly out of shape. However, Matt won't take the elevator. He doesn't…he doesn't trust it.

_How many people are victims of elevator-related deaths each year?_

_Probably a shit load more than you'd expect._

Mello—he takes the elevator—makes fun of him for this, but Matt doesn't care. The stairs are good enough. He…so maybe he's a _bit_ paranoid. It doesn't matter. _I'd rather walk._

Which, coupled with smoking and his lazy lifestyle, brings about the subversive fear of asthma.

The door swings open, and Matt allows himself to flop soggily onto the couch. He's going to take a nap, a long one. Screw the Kira Case. Kira can wait until he's rested.

"Matt!"

Mello's nagging pulls him prematurely from his stupor.

"Damn it, Matt, get in here! I need you!"

Unhurriedly extracting himself from the vacuum-like cushions of the sofa, the redhead gets up to see what his boss is yammering on about this time. Mello is perched on the windowsill as he was this morning, staring with unerring fanaticism at the video feed of Misa Amane's empty apartment.

"I see you've been keeping busy."

"Yes. Quite."

Matt's sarcasm is lost upon the blonde.

"Come here for a minute."

The redhead approaches carefully. He knows from experience to be mindful of those ice blue eyes. "What is it?"

"How maneuverable is that Mustang of yours?"

"Very. Why?"

The blonde smirks, lip twisted further on one side because of the scarring. "We'll need it when we take Takada."

"Now wait a minute!" The Mustang is Matt's pride and joy, right up there with WOW and unfiltered cigarettes. "I will not sacrifice my car to the whim of your crackpot idea."

"Crackpot?!"

This was probably the stupidest thing Matt could have said. Above all else, above being insulted, injured, possibly even beaten by Near, Mello _hates_ being labeled crazy. Sanity is a touchy subject for him, and for a long time Matt was baffled by this. However, after years of knowing him, the redhead has come to a conclusion.

Mello fears insanity for the same reason Matt fears asthma. He's at risk.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ fucking talk to me like that again! Got it?"

Matt says nothing. He can't help but appreciate the passionate elegance with which Mello spins his wrath.

"Don't forget who's in charge! Don't forget who gave you a job and got you out of that hellhole in Los Angeles!"

"I…I know, Mello. I'm…"

No place exists in Mello's rage for an apology. He only ignores it and continues to smolder, hands coming up to clench the manufactured vibrancy of his partner's hair.

"You will continue to do what I say without question. _Understand._"

The blonde has a talent for turning questions into infallible commands.

"All right. I do. Mel…Mello, you're hurting me."

Matt's hair is released suddenly, and the shock of this action causes him to stumble back against the wall. Mello is still fuming, pupils swiveling with the desperation of a dying creature. A bar of chocolate crumbles in his fist. The crucifix swings hysterically on its tether. Matt is afraid of him and, knowing this, Mello's fire increases in intensity.

"Screw it!" Mello kicks a nearby computer screen. The logo of Sakura TV fractures briefly before going dark. "I can do all of it myself! Just get the hell out of here!"

"Come on. Don't be a…"

"Out!"

"You asshole! You can't do that! You can't just use me and than…"

A consul is hurled with exceptional force in Matt's direction. "OUT!"

"Sure, _Boss_. Whatever you say."

Turning on his heal, Matt marches back into the living room and straight out the door. He's tired of being taken advantage of. He's **done** with this. He **won't** come back. Not even if the blonde demands it. Not even if he gets down on his knees and…

But the redhead knows this isn't true. In his state of rage, even, he is aware of this. They both are. Mello needs Matt. Matt just needs to be needed. Together they are something Near isn't, something even L could never be. They aren't cold. They aren't meticulous. They don't really work well together. But Mello and Matt manage to accomplish things. Somehow. In their own stupid and rash and methodless way.

Los Angeles, though? Why'd he have to bring that up?

* * *

"_Come on, man. Let me stay the night." _

_Matt stands in the doorway of an acquaintance's apartment. Hair fading back to brown. Laptop wedged securely beneath his armpit. The foul stench of the L.A. air lingers with him on the doorstep. He's been out of an apartment for a week now. Out of a job for two._

"_No way, Matt." The acquaintance—Matt forgets his name—shakes his head. "You stayed hear two nights ago. Find someone else's blood to suck."_

_The door slams, and the redhead turns away. "…fucker…" He ambles back onto the street, barely existent cigarette butt jammed between his lips, hand fingering the computer charger shoved inside his pocket. He wonders if he'll have to sleep outside again. __**At least the smog will keep me warm. **_

"_Hey, you alone tonight?"_

_Looking up, Matt is met with the eyes of a tall, thirty-something year old man. He is neither handsome nor particularly ugly. Just average. Remarkable only in the completeness of his typicality. Black hair. Brown eyes. The human race's most common physical appearance._

"_Sorry. I got plans."_

_Matt isn't stupid. He's been hit on like this many times before. The easiest thing to do is blow off the advances. He's never worked up enough energy to be offended._

_**What makes everyone so sure I'm a faggot, anyway?**_

"_Suit yourself." The man wanders off in affected indifference._

"_Yeah, thanks," the redhead mutters under his breath. "I think I will." He continues ambling up the street, wondering if there isn't anyone else he can hit up for a place to stay. Matt refuses to spend another night at the shelter. There are too many people. Everything smells bad. He's afraid some junkie will fuck up his laptop._

_So Matt decides to sleep in the park across from his old apartment. Not out of nostalgia, of course, but because he is sure this park is clean—no dealers, no gangs, no prostitutes. Just yellow grass and malnourished oak trees rising up to blot out the garishly lit skyline and invisible stars._

_Sprawling out on the dying lawn, Matt wonders for the hundredth time how he ended up like this. He left Wammy's when he was sixteen, bored without Mello and annoyed by the children's attempts to steal his videogames. He never entertained the idea of staying in England but drifted through Europe aimlessly, wasting the last of his Wammy inheritance on a one-way ticket to New York City. But Matt found New York to be too fast-paced. Within a month he woke up penniless and unwashed at the Greyhound station in Sacramento. The dazzlingly superficial gaiety of Los Angeles was his only logical destination._

"_Plans, huh?"_

_A horrible, retching sensation builds in Matt's esophagus. The black-haired, brown-eyed man is standing over him. He seems less ordinary somehow. An anger, a despairing and misguided rage, now taints his normality. _

"_Sorry. I don't swing that way." Matt attempts to get up, attempts to play it cool in hopes that by some violent twist of fate he can talk his way out of this. _

"_As if I give a fuck." The redhead gasps in pain as the man's foot strikes him squarely in the side. He doubles over instinctively, all intention of flight lost as he struggles for oxygen. "I hate shits like you!" Another blow, this time in the stomach, causes Matt to cry out in pain. "Not so disgusted with me now, are you!" The man drags Matt to his feet and shakes him. "One day…one day, you'll be just like me! Desperate! Hopeless! Sick of the pity and revulsion!" Tears and snot dribble down the no longer ordinary man's face. "And then…then you'll understand…"_

_The diminutive click of a silenced gun and the left side of the man's head explodes in a burst of crimson. Matt is drenched in bits of bone and brain matter. He holds the desperate, not yet distant gaze of the man and wonders briefly if he's looking back. The suddenness of the action dulls his growing sense of horror._

"_Are you Matt?"_

_The redhead tries to turn in the direction of the speaker but is stopped by the dead man's hands, still clenched around his throat._

"…_yes…" Speaking seems harder than usual. "I…I am…"_

"_Good." The shooter—a large man, dread locks—walks up and tears Matt from the corpse's grasp. "Get your computer and follow me. Mello's waiting in the car."_

_Mind stuck between feeling sympathy for the dead man and realizing he's covered in blood and bits of cerebral cortex, the importance of these words is temporarily lost on Matt. It isn't until he climbs into the back of a limousine and is greeted by the twisted smirk of his childhood companion that the redhead realizes just how fucked up this situation has become._

"_Hey, Mattie. Long time no see."_

_God, he needs a cigarette._

* * *

Thoughts still lost in his muddled past, Matt pulls up to an abandoned textile warehouse that was once, during his mafia days, Mello's Japan-based hideout. _Why did I come here?_ Matt often goes driving when he needs to blow off some steam. The rev of the engine calms him. Same with the anonymity of the Mustang's tinted windows. But what brings him here? Certainly Mello would not be pleased.

Matt climbs out of the car and gazes up at the dilapidated building. The padlock is broken—_does Mello know_—so breaking in is not a problem. There's still the matter of _what the fuck am I doing here_, but at least he doesn't have to smash a window. Standing in the main room of the hideout, the redhead marvels at the extravagance of the mafia. A checkerboard linoleum floor. Red leather furniture and zebra print pillows. Abandoned computers, firearms, bottles of expensive alcohol—left as dusty still-life tributes to the men who used them to extort, blackmail, and kill. Broken mannequins are strewn about everywhere—perhaps one of Mello's sick plays at interior design. They were probably stored in the building before the Mob took it, locked away unwanted and alone.

Matt makes quick work of the room, preferring further exploration to the unsettling companionship of the dolls. A hallway looms before him. At its conclusion stands a metal door. The redhead doesn't shiver because of the eerily cliché setting. He shivers because of Mello's presence, because of the knowledge that the blonde has stormed gracefully through these halls time and time again.

Thinking about Mello, the redhead's body will sometimes break into an uncomfortable sweat. Why is that? He wishes that he didn't know.

Matt isn't surprised to find the door sealed by a keypad lock. However, it isn't hard—for him at least—to figure out the password_. 1-27-97_. The date of Mello's First Communion. This knowledge comes less from being a genius than from knowing his boss more thoroughly than anyone else.

The door opens with a click, and Matt is inside. _Just a surveillance room_. He had expected something a bit more intense…a bit more Melloish and violent. Matt studies the workings of the camera system with only the slightest bit of interest. He designed it for Mello not long after recruitment. All video feed is stored on a special zip drive that holds a huge storage capacity. Whenever the drive becomes full, new data is rewritten over old.

This, of course, Matt has neglected to mention to the blonde. Mello—idiosyncratic, brilliant, insufferable genius that he is—baulks at the very mention of deletion. He wants to save everything, to scour it for bits of Near or Kira or L. That Matt's design saves money and automatically covers tracks is completely overshadowed by the blonde's neurotic need for analysis.

Which leads Matt to wonder what Mello's done with his photograph.

The redhead laughs. Because of his design the surveillance system is still working, still eavesdropping on the ghosts of people now bound in prison or in death. He stares at the video feed of the empty hallways, of the broken padlock.

_Hmm…maybe if I…_

A red light beeps as he rewinds. Time inverts. The present loses meaning. Unaffected are the dusty halls and checkered linoleum. Empty. Timeless. And then…

Mello is sitting alone on one of the horrendous leather couches. His head is down, coarse, uncut hair falling in his face. The redhead breathes a sigh of relief. So it was Mello who went and broke the lock.

On the screen, said blonde speaks quietly into a cell phone.

"_He's going to make him write your names in the notebook directly."_

For a moment Mello's eyes lift to the mannequins, broken and _**used**_, encircling him. And how like a doll he seems, limbs hanging in dejection, eyes listless and hair unkempt.

"_It looks like I'm the only one who can do it."_

Something clicks in Matt's brain. The resignation of these words, the finality and despair of them…

On the little screen before him, Matt watches the blonde put down his cell phone.

"_One of the Notebooks…" _Mello clutches impulsively at the rosary dangling from his neck. _"One of the Notebooks is a fake."_

The laughter that follows this revelation is not the product of Mello's usual, manic glee. Rather, it is sardonic. He seems suddenly aware of some impending fate, a fate so terrible it can't help but be laughed at.

"_Takada will be the key to all of this."_

* * *

Matt enters the apartment, a disjointed panic breathing a flush into his normally placid way of thinking. Mello is not in the living room; nor is he in the kitchen or bathroom. He hasn't gone out. The redhead is sure of this, as sure as the familiar acceleration of his heartbeat, as the volatile tension in the air.

Tearing through the apartment in a state of pseudo-alarm, Matt finally locates Mello in the bedroom. He is sleeping soundly on the cable-choked mattress, facial scarring exposed to the computer screens' unyielding scrutiny. His brows are un-furrowed, disquieting gaze hidden by the relaxation of his eyelids. Even Mello's lips, normally tight and angry against his teeth, are lax and a little bit parted.

Sighing in what he grudgingly assumes to be relief, Matt sinks to the floor and props his back up against the side of the bed. The blonde, a deep sleeper, does not stir. Matt gazes at him in the semi-darkness. He wonders how it is that sinners sleep so peacefully.

The redhead lights a cigarette.

"Who was that on the phone?"

The questions he will never ask surge forth, unreal to all but Matt, for there is no one else to hear them.

"Was it Near?"

Of course not. He isn't stupid.

"That Lidner woman?"

The redhead's frustration is tainted with something just poignant enough to be jealousy.

"What did you mean when you said you were the only one who could do it?"

On the mattress, Mello stirs a little and turns over on his side.

"A fake Notebook? Is that why we have to kidnap Takada?"

Matt feels inadequate, too stupid to understand.

"Why won't you tell me anything?"

"You'll have a better chance of living if I don't."

Blue eyes bore into the base of Matt's skull. Mello's sitting up, hair ticking up weirdly from his disrupted sleep.

_I woke him up. I never wake him up. _

"Ignorance…"

He's talking now. Matt can't help but listen.

"…ignorance is not bliss." Mello drags himself towards Matt. "…but sometimes…" His arm extends, leather-clad hands reaching out to touch the back of the redhead's neck. "…sometimes it is safety."

"Bullshit."

In daylight Matt wouldn't say this. At least not with such conviction. However, nighttime—the hope that Mello, anger diluted by exhaustion, will not lash out—gives him temerity.

"You just don't trust me. You don't trust anyone."

"You're _wrong_." Something in the timbre of the blonde's voice causes Matt to turn around. He is shocked by the sight of Mello's eyes, by the fear in them. "You'll never betray me. I know that, but…I never meant to drag you into this, not this far."

The palm on the back of Matt's neck is trembling. "Don't worry." He reaches back, presses his warm hand against Mello's cool one. "I don't mind." And he doesn't. Really. Without the Kira case, Matt's life would lose direction. He would be bored with none of Mello's plots and tantrums to keep him occupied. Without Mello. This concept is literally beyond Matt's comprehension.

"I shouldn't have fought with you." Mello's pseudo-apology is lame but endearing. "It was a mistake."

Matt nods but does not reply. He is content to sit in silence, for once not working, just sharing with the blonde the tranquility of idleness. Mello's fingers twine around the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. It feels nice. Nice enough for Matt to close his eyes and…

* * *

Mello watches as his red-haired companion begins to doze off. Goggles slipping lower on his nose, Matt resembles his childhood self. Awkward, but charmingly so. Handsome, even…if you don't mind stripes, Mario, and badly sewn vests. Anyway, Mello's glad he's getting rest. He doesn't seem to be sleeping well lately.

A smoldering stub of cigarette falls from Matt's lips and begins to burn a hole into the carpet. Disentangling his hand from the redhead's hair, Mello rises to stamp it out. His back cracks in protest of this sudden movement, sore from being hunched so long before a computer screen. How does Matt do it? He has no idea.

In truth Mello has little idea of how Matt is capable of doing many of the things he does. Putting up with a psychotic—even as a thought, this word cuts him a little—employer being foremost among them. As a child Matt was lazy, stirred to action only when Mello urged him to it. Adolescence and adulthood proved no different. Still, what actions can Matt be stirred to! What oft unnoticed but fantastic feats can he be coerced into performing! All for Mello. Because they are friends. Because…because what Matt feels for Mello is not adoration but something close to it, something Mello is too frightened to define.

Matt's commitment to Mello's causes has increased since the explosion. His actions seem spurred on by guilt, a fact that the blonde shamelessly extorts.

_I've not been very good to him. _

Mello has told himself this many times before. However, not until now has this statement so affected him. Gazing at Matt, exhausted and underweight, smoking three packs a day and sporting L-like circles beneath his eyes, Mello begins to realize the enormity of his transgression.

"Deus meus, ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum,

eaque detestor, quia peccando,

non solum poenas a te iuste statutas promeritus sum…"

Turning sharply from his slumbering companion, Mello gazes out the window towards the city glittering a hundred feet below. He clutches at his rosary and continues.

"…sed praesertim quia offendi te…"

The crucifix bites into the palm of Mello's hand, offended by the pressure of his grip.

"…summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris.

Ideo firmiter propono,

adiuvante gratia tua,

de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum…"

"Amen."

Mello whirls about, finds himself looking into Matt's green eyes. The redhead smiles a little. "The Act of Contrition. Am I right?"

Mello nods and listens as the other recites the same prayer in lilted English.

"O my God, I am heartily sorry,

for having offended Thee,

and I detest all my sins,

because of thy just punishment,

but most of all because they

offend Thee, my God,

Who are all-good and deserving

of all my love.

I firmly resolve, with the help

of Thy grace to confess my sins,

to do penance,

and to amend my life."

"Amen." This time it is Mello who completes the prayer. His fingers are numb, lacerated by the cross's edges. Hoping that Matt hasn't caught the intensity his glance—too long to be called fleeting—he averts his eyes.

"Who were you praying to?"

"God. Who else?"

Mello answers without hesitation, but, to be honest, he's not really sure.

"God, huh? What's his advice?"

Mello smirks wistfully, both amused and irritated by Matt's disparagement of religion. "Once he gets back to me I'll be sure to tell you."

The redhead shrugs and lights another cigarette. "I'll hold you to it." He looks as if he'd like to say more but cuts himself off at the last minute, opting instead for the secular comfort of his DS. Leaning against the windowsill, Mello watches Matt play. His thoughts are far from Kira. Even the crucifix has fallen from his fingers. However, the blonde's mind is not at rest. Their earlier argument plays back inside his head.

_Please God, don't let him die on my account._

He hopes somebody's listening.

* * *

**-UsuakariTOT** (**Sorry I took so long! School's been kind of hectic, and I have trouble finding time to work on my fanfiction. Anyway, please tell me what you think of this chapter. There's not much in the way of action (that comes later), but I tried to provide more backup information while alluding to M and M's feelings for each other (things WILL intensify, I assure you). Also, I'm trying to follow the canon storyline and facts as accurately as possible. Please tell me if I've messed something up! )**

**PLEASE REVIEW.**


	3. The Loveless

**St. Michael and the Damned Apostle**

"_**Blessed is the man that endureth temptations: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life."**_

_**(New Testement. James: chapter 1, verse 12)**_

**Part 3: The Loveless**

* * *

_A gold-spun child stares out the window into the overwhelming whiteness of a German winter. It is nearing nine o'clock P.M. and he is waiting for his father to return. It is cold outside, so cold he can feel the chill permeating from the window pane. However, the rest of the apartment is cramped and hot and wonderful. Wrapped in a wool scarf and the scent of his mother's cooking, the child feels sweaty and secure._

"_Mihael, come to dinner."_

"_I can't I'm waiting."_

"Darling…" An equally blond pregnant woman appears in the doorway. "Your father won't be home until late."

_Mihael's mother is a woman of Bulgarian decent who, by some twisted stint of fate, wound up in southern Germany. Six years ago she was swept off to Munich by the son of a Nazi officer. His name is Alphonse Keehl. He was twenty-eight years old at the time. She was fifteen._

"_I don't care. I'm going to wait for him." _

_The woman sighs. Like his father, her son has proven to be unusually smart and unusually willful. Yet he is still a child, and Gergana Keehl doesn't have the heart to tell him his father is a notorious drunkard._

"_Come eat. You can wait up for him afterwards, if you like."_

* * *

Three days from death:

"Did you get a hold of that weapons dealer?"

"Yeah."

"And the smokescreen device?"

"Too expensive. I made my own."

"Matt! What did I…"

The redhead averts his eyes from the DS long enough to give Mello a reprimanding glare. For once the blonde drops the subject. He's in no mood to argue.

The smokescreen only has to work once, anyway.

Matt stands, goggles glinting softly in the muted light that escapes between the blinds. "I'm going to the store. Want anything?"

"No." Lately, Mello's been able to stomach very little. Even chocolate leaves an unpleasant flavor to linger in his mouth. "Just remember to keep your cell turned on in case I need you."

"Yes sir." Smirking, Matt uses a gloved hand to waggle a beat up—and, of course, garishly red—phone in Mello's face. "Be back in ten."

Mello watches from the corner of his eye as the redhead dons his hideous vest and exits the apartment. His legs look like sticks in those equally horrible jeans and his hair needs washing, but Mello is far too tired to summon his usual annoyance and disgust at Matt's slovenly appearance.

_He really does look tired though. Perhaps I should let him have the bed for once._

Matt usually sleeps on the couch or—as he did last night—the floor. It has never occurred to Mello that this might be hard on him. Even at Wammy's Matt never was picky when it came to finding a place to crash.

_I'll talk to him about it when he gets back._

Mello makes a lot of promises like this to himself and keeps very few of them. When push comes to shove, he is rarely kind to Matt. This of course makes little sense. He likes Matt. He likes _only_ Matt. Aside from L, he is the only person Mello has in any way admired and trusted since…

…since the night his father passed away.

* * *

_It is late, two o'clock in the morning, and Mihael Keehl is still waiting for his father to return. They fire went out around midnight, and the apartment is no longer warm. Somewhere in the snow-blasted streets of Munich, his silver-haired father is stumbling homeward, being followed by the man who will soon kill him in front of his only son._

_**I'll be like him when I'm older. I'll be just as tall and just as strong. I'll have a mustache and…**_

_What Mihael doesn't know is that he will grow up looking nothing like his father. He will be thin with a face that, while not girlish, is sharp and delicate and refuses to grow anything more substantial than a prickly blond fuzz. However, he will share his father's lust for ambition, for sex, for any way in which he can prove he is the best…especially when he isn't. _

_His father's life will be cut short, as will his. Because of fanatic aspiration, because they are unable to be honest with themselves, both men will die unhappy. However, one might argue that Mihael comes out on top in the end. At least he dies thinking he's done something right._

_Mihael's father comes into view, and the boy presses his nose against the window to get a better look. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a trench coat, stumbling slightly because he is unendurably drunk. Mihael doesn't care. He is excited to see his father, so much so that he doesn't notice the smaller man in a less warm jacket following from about thirty paces back. _

"_Wie spat is est?" His father stares at him groggily from the doorway. "You should be in bed."_

"_I was waiting…"_

_"For who? Me?" The man laughs—he never laughs unless inebriated—and strides over to look down at his son's neatly trimmed bob of yellow hair. "Go to bed Mihael. You'll get…"_

_But the boy isn't listening. Instead, he stares past his father's drunken, ice-blue eyes into the brown ones of the unfamiliar young man standing in the open doorway._

"_Alphonse, was ist das?" He is young, a man-child of nineteen years, with curly, chin-length black hair and a snub nose and angry lips that look soft and full and beautiful. "What is this? Who is this boy?"_

_A startled sound erupts from the older man's throat as he spins around to face his dark-eyed follower. "Y-you…what are you…"_

"_You said you didn't have a family!" The lovely boy pulls a pistol from his threadbare jacket and points it at the man's breast. "You said you wanted to…!"_

"_Be quiet." Alphonse Keehl does not look at the gun. Instead, he keeps his cold, sobered, unbearably loveless eyes focused on the younger's trembling face. "You will not speak of this in front of my son!"_

"_Your son?" The boy is shaking, shaking from cold, from loss. He is unlike Mihael and his father in every way. Soft, vulnerable, happily submissive in all acts but this. Even the pistol looks like some ridiculous toy nestled in the crook of his pale-white hand. "You said you didn't have a son."  
_

_Alphonse stands between his son and the dark-haired boy. Staring at his broad shoulders, Mihael thinks that he has never seemed so strong. "I'm afraid you misunderstood me. I had no intention…"_

"_I see." The boy cuts him off. He's started crying. "In my heart I suppose I knew this. Why else would I follow you?"_

_"Put the gun down." Mihael's father sets his large palm firmly on the other's shoulder. They are so close now that the pistol's barrel is digging directly into his chest. "You wouldn't kill a man in front of his only child, would you?"_

"_I hate you…I hate you so much…why…" The boy—a good ten centimeters shorter than the man—trails off into a guttural, mystic language Mihael cannot understand._

"_That's how it should be. Your kind and mine…"_

_For the first time real anger flares above the younger's blanket of tears and despair. "Your kind and mine!? What the hell do you mean by that? This isn't 1940! Are you saying that if we lived back then you would send me to Auschwi…" _

_The gray-haired man cuts him off with a kiss. The boy lowers the gun and allows himself to be pulled in, easily seduced and ravenous for love. Their exchange is long and deep and hot, and when Mihael's father breaks away, the boy's lips are bruised and swollen._

_Mihael, of course, is too stunned for words. He's never seen his father kiss his own wife, much less a man. Somewhere deep inside, where the moral fabric of society loses sway, Mihael even feels a little bit jealous. His father is not by nature this affectionate._

"_Go home." Alphonse Keehl whispers thickly in the younger's ear. "Take this money and go home and sleep. Buy yourself a good meal and a new coat in the morning and forget this. Here, give me the gun."_

_The dark-haired boy shakes his head. He refuses to relinquish the gun in favor of the bills the man his thrusting into his hand. "I can't," he murmurs. "If I do I'll never see you again."_

"_GODDAMN IT BOY! DON'T YOU SEE THAT I'M…"_

_Several things happen at once. Alphonse Keehl lifts his hand to strike just instants before the boy raises his arm to protect himself. This is, of course, his dominant arm, the one that holds the gun. The appendages collide with startling force, causing the pistol to dislodge and falls to the floor. It hits the ground and misfires, the ensuing crack waking Mrs. Keehl and momentarily stunning the three occupants of the room. When the shock clears, the dark-haired boy stares horrified at Mihael's father. Alphonse staggers back so that he stands in the middle of the room. The gun lies between himself and the boy. It's smoking. _

_From his position at the windowsill, Mihael doesn't understand what's going on. It's only when he sees the blood dripping to the ground before his father's feet that the boy's sharp mind begins to understand. _

_The dark-haired boy doesn't say anything but stares sickly at the scarlet spot blooming on his lover's chest. _

"…_look at me…"  
_

_He forces himself tearfully to meet the gaze of the dying man. _

_The eyes of Alphonse Keehl are cold but not angry. Whether he is regretful or at least resigned is anyone's guess. However, a clue might be looked for in his final actions. Before he relinquishes his hold on living, Mihael's father mouths a single word. _

…_**Tobias…**_

* * *

Mello often thinks of this moment as a sort of fantastical dream. He remembers how cold the window felt against his back, how the face of his father's lover had lost its softness as he picked up the pistol, wrapped his kiss-rouged lips around it, and blew out the back of his head. He remembers his mother walking in, her scream as the husband who was old enough to be her father bled out upon the hardwood floor.

Even now it seems like a work of fiction. Mello's father engaging in an affair. An affair with another man, no less! Alphonse Keehl wasn't even passionate enough to kiss his wife! He was a man of business, a visage of apathy so unerring it bordered madness.

Mello is much the same, though perhaps with a bit too much madness to accommodate for apathy.

But the man had his vices. Alcohol, Mello supposes, stirred within him some sort of lustful madness. Intoxicated by intoxication, his father had taken on a beautiful and troubled youth to sate his drunken hunger. It's not a though he finds pleasant to dwell on. Staring sightlessly at one of the computer screens, Mello finds himself wondering when Matt will return to take his mind off the blemishes of his childhood.

Tired for once of staring at computer screens, Mello enters the kitchen to find some chocolate. However, the moment his lips touch the candy, he feels sick and sets it down. Instead, the blonde returns to the bedroom with a half-empty bottle of Sobieski Vodka. He continues to think about his father between sips. It burns all the way down.

* * *

"_Father, this boy has yet to know the word of God."_

_An eight-year old Mihael stands in the doorway of a Roman Catholic Cathedral. His mother is dead, and he has been brought to the orphanage of a nearby monastery. The monk who's leading him is now speaking to the abbot._

"_His mother and father are dead. They were neither baptized nor absolved."_

"_And there were no other living relatives?"_

"_No, Father."_

"_He has no inheritance?"_

"_No, Father."_

"_No family friends?"_

"_N-no, Father. His father was the son of a war criminal."_

_The old man laughs. It is an unpleasant, pitying sound. "Do not tell me that he hasn't even got a name!"_

_The monk attempts to smile. He doesn't see what's funny. "No, Father. He has got a name. His name is Michael."_

"_Mihael." This is the first time the boy has spoken. "My name is Mihael."  
_

"_Mihael, eh?" The abbot smiles at him then turns and points to one of the church's stained glass windows. "Tell me, do you know who that is?"_

_Mihael stares at the window's image: an angel holding a flaming sword. "…no…" He hates this man for making him admit his ignorance._

"_That is St. Michael, my son. It is he who banished Satan's armies to Hell and it is he who will weigh the purity of souls at the final Judgment. He is the punisher of the wicked and the protector of the just. You bear his name, my son, and so he shall protect you."_

_The boy stares up at the angel's emotionless glass face and is impressed. Since his parents' death, he has been surrounded by expression. Pity, disgust, curiosity, and of course the smug knowingness of those who think they know everything about his family's shame. Mihael hates it, craves instead coldness, disinterest, the brutal justice of St. Michael's scales and sword. _

_Mihael Keehl starts crying. He weeps for the mother who just left him, for the father who betrayed him. He even weeps for the black-haired boy with soft lips and injured eyes who will forever remain in his memory stained with blood. Finally, Mihael weeps for himself, for his stolen childhood, for the fact that he will never be normal. He is too headstrong, too smart, too tainted and too terribly lost. The only people capable of loving him are dead, and even a boy as cruel as this one balks at the idea of a life that is loveless. _

_A hand reaches out to touch his trembling shoulder._

"_Do not feel sorrowful any longer, my son." The Father smiles, a crinkle forming at the corner of each eye. "Accept God, and all will be forgiven. Will you do this?"__**will**__ accept God… providing, of course, that God is something like the fragile apathy etched in the lines of St. Michael's face._

_Mihael Keehl looks to the angel then back at the old man. He nods._ _He will accept God… providing, of course, that God is something like the fragile apathy etched in the lines of St. Michael's face._

* * *

"Hey, I'm back." Matt slips in through the doorway carrying three bags of Doritos and a carton of cigarettes. He isn't worried when no one answers. Mello isn't always very talkative. "I saw that Hal woman on the way back. Don't think she was doing anything suspicious, just carrying a shopping ba…"

No reply. Now he knows that something's up.

Pocketing his ever present Nintendo, Matt makes a B-line for the bedroom. He can hear the buzz of monitors, the gibberish of perhaps seven different newscasters, but no snap of chocolate, no irritated admonishes. "Mello, are you…"

Mello is leaning against the windowsill…asleep. A bottle of Matt's favorite vodka rests at his side. His face is pressed against the window, creating a reflection. Matt doesn't want to wake him. He'll be pissed, and a pissed Mello is both annoying and dangerous.

"Whatever." Shifting his cigarette to the other corner of his mouth, the redhead grabs his laptop and hunches down before the computer screens to watch. There's nothing much to record these days. Only more killings. But he might as well make some kind of effort.

The problem is that Matt can't concentrate. Mello keeps making these weird, moaning noises. They're loud and out of character and if Matt has to deal with one more variable in his rapidly shortening lifespan he will rip out his hair and scream.

A sudden clinking thud and the redhead whirls around. In the fitfulness of his dream, Mello has knocked over the vodka, which bleeds rapidly into the molding carpet.

"Shit." The cigarette falls from his exclaiming lips.

Heaving himself off the floor, Matt rights the bottle and gives the blonde a good shake. For an instant Mello flails stupidly. Then, his eyes open.

* * *

"_Who are you?"  
_

_The young man merely smiles and continues to regard him. He's weird looking, skinny and pale with sunken eyes and a shock of black hair that frames a rather unattractive face. He's visiting Mihael in the kitchen of the orphanage. It's the only place they can talk in private. _

"_Mihael Keehl. Ten years old. German. Parents deceased. Exhibits extremely high I.Q, accompanied with a degree of emotional instability." The young man stares at him as he says this. He doesn't blink._

_So Mihael repeats himself. "Who are you."_

_The man's smile is funny, a sort of tight-lipped upturn. "I am L."_

_The child laughs. He thinks he's kidding. "L, huh? Well then, Mr. L, who am I?"_

_L doesn't miss a beat. "From the moment you walk out this door onward, you will be known only as Mello."_

* * *

Mello wakes up thinking of L and his father, of God and the crucifix that hangs around his throat. His eyes are closed, and someone is shaking him.

"Mells?"

That stupid nickname. That stupid, god-awful nickname!

"What, Matt?" His eyes snap open, and an inexplicable anger mixes with the alcohol inside his stomach.

"You were talking in your sleep." The redhead sounds pretty irritated, himself. "It was distracting."

"Oh." Mello struggles to his feet, only to collapse heavily against his companion as his body is wracked by a wave of vertigo. Matt's nicotine-scarred lips twitch in both agitation and concern. Concern. He hates it…the faces of those who knew his father's sin. Roger's pitying stare as he raged against the idea of working with Near.

Which is, indirectly, exactly what he now plans on doing.

"What the fuck's with you, Mello?" He didn't know Matt's grip could be so strong. "Why do you keep acting like this?"

"You don't understand." How can he? How can Matt understand the frustration of compromising values when he has no values whatsoever? "Let go of my arm."

The redhead responds to this by punching him squarely in the face. Underweight, inactive, and on a one-way track to insomnia, the source of his strength is an absolute mystery. "You bastard." He leans in close to Mello's bruised cheek, green eyes piercing through the goggles. "You fucking bastard!" The end of the word fractures and it's hard to tell if Matt is crying or too choked with rage to speak. He tries to throw another punch, but this time his arm is not strong. Mello catches his wrist easily and, wrapping his own arms securely around his torso, pulls him gently to the floor.

"Calm down, Matt." He squeezes the redhead's palm guiltily and tries to look neutral. "That isn't…I don't want…let's not end on a bad note, all right?"

Matt's expression becomes affectedly blank. "You're serious about this, aren't you? The whole dying thing."

"It applies to myself more so than you. If everything goes smoothly you'll have about a 67% chance of living through this."

"What about you?"

Mello tries to grin, but it comes off looking more like some kind of facial twitch. "My chances are less than 30%"

"…oh…" Matt's still trapped in Mello's arms. Because of this, he can feel his body shaking.

"Don't worry. I'm not…"

"Scared?" Matt's laugh is high and pinched. "Well, _shit,_ Mello! I sure as hell am! What am I supposed to do if you die, huh? W-what am I supposed…"

_Oh, Matt…_

This rant is so familiar, so desperate and lonely and forgivably selfish. Mello is beginning to understand a little…

'"_Your kind and mine!? What the hell do you mean by that?"'_

He can't get these words out of his head. History repeats itself. Maybe this is what is meant to happen.

**A kiss.**

A kiss between friends.

_Between lovers._

Is there a difference? Was there then? Mello isn't aware of much as he brings his lips to meet those of the redhead trembling against him. He only knows that Matt does not fight back, that this feels too natural to be anything less than total sin. He takes advantage of the redhead's shock-slackened jaw and presses his tongue partway into his mouth. Matt tastes like the poison he inhales. It doesn't mix well with Mello's own flavor of booze and chocolate. That's all right, though. This kiss isn't about pleasure; it's about comfort.

This thought does little to subdue his growing sense of blasphemy.

* * *

Mello's kiss brings about in Matt something akin to a near death or LSD-related experience. Geometric patterns appear before his eyes; everything warps, bends itself so that he seems to be racing exhaustlessly towards a glimmering wink of light. At the end of the tunnel is Mello, Mello with his crucifix and his scars and his blue eyes and his cruel lips that are both enticing and dangerously sharp.

"Matt." Mello is staring at him, _**penetrating**_ him with his terrified, terrifying stare. "I-I won't…won't let you…everything is fine."

_Lying again_. But Matt forgives him. He forgives him and holds on to him and wonders just what the hell they think they're doing. The blonde buries his face in his hair, breathing deep and slow as if to keep himself from crying. He _**isn't**_ crying, of course, but Matt gets the impression that he wishes that he could.

Another kiss surprises the redhead. One kiss is astonishing. But two? The second one falls below his ear on the side of his neck. There is frustration behind it, something primal and repressed and brutally loving. Mello's tongue grazes the soft flesh of his throat, causing Matt's body to twitch at the embarrassingly pleasurable sensation it elicits. Then he has his lips again, pushing Matt back onto the floor with the strength hidden stream-lined and catlike in his slender but powerful frame.

"I'm going to do this, Matt. I'm going die and I'm going to go to hell, but I'll do this first."

Matt simply nods and tries not to blush in embarrassment as Mello rips off his vest and slides a hand beneath his shirt. Leather gloves meet the soft whiteness of his lower back. The sensation is both impersonal and deeply intimate.

"Goddamn it, Matt! Why am I like this?"

The redhead smiles sadly and shakes his head, reaching up to push some hair from the blonde's frustrated face. "It doesn't matter." He twirls his fingers in the other's bangs and pulls him down into another poison kiss. His own forwardness alarms him, but for once Mello does not seem irritated by Matt's rashness. Instead, he begins pulling off the redhead's shirt, cringing slightly as he peers at the younger's chest.

"You've lost weight."

The redhead shrugs noncommittally. "The winter makes me lose my appetite."

"Eat more."

_Isn't it already too late to matter?_ Matt allows his shirt to be fully removed. He squirms self-consciously, brutally aware of his physical imperfections. He is frightened of his own nakedness. So, too, is Mello.

"You're uh…"

"…not what you were expecting?" Matt blushes at his own words, angry and sharp and ridiculously girl-like.

"That's not what I meant." Beneath his shock of dirt-blond hair, Mello is also blushing. "I've just never seen you…like this, I mean." Frustrated by his inability to correctly express himself, the blonde pulls off his gloves and drags his fingernails down the redhead's sides. It hurts, but Matt refuses to let on. He simply can't bear adding to the anguish already building in Mello's eyes.

Instead he allows the blonde to tear in. Tooth and nail. Fire and brimstone. Mello punishes him with love. Unaware or uncaring of treacherous waters and the beasts that lie beneath, he plunges in head first. There is no room for timidity or second guessing. Right or wrong, what Mello does he does without looking back. Yesterday, such an act was blasphemy, and so it remains today. However, there is a difference. Yesterday, Mello feared sin. Today, he fears only the uncertainty of what waits for him after death.

He was bound for hell from the beginning. Might as well enjoy himself while he has the chance.

The redhead gasps in surprise as a cold, now gloveless hand slips beneath the waistband of his jeans. Mello fingers the brown fuzz that trails beneath his navel, following it down beneath his underwear until…

Matt hiccoughs in agitation and excitement as Mello jerks him off. Again, there is no hesitation. The blonde is as determined in desire as he was in guilt.

"Th-this is…"

"…me…" Mello's stare is maddening. "…touch me, too…"

Matt complies. It isn't so bad, unlacing the crotch of the blonde's pants and grabbing his erection. Having his hand in such close proximity to Mello's gun—also wedged securely in the front of his pants—makes him a bit nervous, but, when overused, even danger loses its effect. What Matt is doing doesn't feel natural, but it isn't disgusting either. Compared to his hands, this part of Mello is extremely warm.

During all of this, Mello is still kissing him, still giving him a forceful but unbelievably effective hand job. The roughness of his scars is comforting and familiar on the redhead's cheek. Like gunpowder and the scent of chocolate. It is only when he's about to come that the blonde's face drops to the crook of Matt's shoulder. His body jerks. His teeth clamp down upon the softness of the redhead's neck. Then he cries out, and something wet and sticky is covering Matt's hand.

The redhead's pleasure simmers for a moment before also boiling over. Something bright crashes into him. Aching, his body finally explodes in an instant of gratification so complete it borders painful. When he comes back to earth, Mello is leaning over him. He looks absolutely horrified.

"Mel…"

The blonde stumbles to his feet, come-covered hand clutching at the burden that hangs around his neck. The other jerks his pants back over his hips. He turns to leave.

"Mello, what the fuck are you…"

Matt falls silent as the other's gun is shoved unceremoniously in his face. "Shut up…just shut the fuck up, Mattie, or I swear…" Mello's hand is trembling, trembling so badly that, regardless of whether or not he means to kill him, Matt is afraid the firearm might go off. He holds his breath. The whole of is consciousness inverts, focuses on the delicate, black maw of the weapon pointing at his face. It is in this moment that Mail Jeevas realizes just how much he does not want to die.

* * *

**-TOT**

**A/N: After a lengthy, college application-related hiatus, I'll leave you with this cliffhanger. I really am sorry for waiting so long to update. Hopefully, it won't deter you from reading and telling me what you think about my work.**

**Please review. **


	4. The Lie

**St Michael and the Damned Apostle**

"_**The worst lies are the lies we tell ourselves. We live in denial of what we do, even of what we think. We do this because we are afraid."**_

_**-Richard Bach**_

**Part 4: The Lie**

* * *

"Matt…damn it…"

Mello's index finger—usually so steady—trembles dangerously against the trigger. Staring despairingly into the redhead's astonished eyes, he feels terror, loathing, and an irrepressible sense of desire he can only just ignore. To have done such things with Matt, to have kissed him, touched him, to have…to have come…unashamedly in his hand. What they have done goes beyond sin. Lucifer himself would…

"Mello, if you shoot me…" Matt is pleading with him now, pleading for his life, for their lives, for something. "…if you shoot me we'll never catch Kira. You'll never…you'll never have the Notebook."

The Notebook.

At one time Mello craved it, craved it not for what could be achieved through its power but for its power as an end in itself. Death Note. The name itself was enough to give him shivers.

"I don't want it! I don't! I'm going to die, Matt! You're going to die! Near will…Near will win and I…"

"…that's what it's about?"

With more courage than he probably thought he could possess, Matt stands and places his palm shakily over the barrel of the gun. "This will lead to Kira's capture. How is that…"

"No." Even Mello's voice is shaking. "It will not lead to Kira's capture. It will lead to Near's verification of who he has known to be Kira for some time now. I-I'm nothing…nothing but his tool."

"Mello…"

The blonde doesn't listen to what the redhead has to say. He is too demented with helplessness, too ashamed of his inferiority, of the silver medal that bears down as heavily as the crucifix upon his chest. He is a failure and he is a blasphemer, second at Wammy's and damned in the eyes of the Lord.

"What about L, Mello? He obviously believed in you."

"L…" The name. The letter. The one syllable that, to Mello, almost amounts to a religion. "L knew me. He knew that I would fail, that I would…would one day be a tool, be Near's tool."

"…maybe." A film of anxious sweat has formed on the redhead's upper lip. "But we're all tools, even Near. Even L."

"Matt, you fucking moron! Don't…"

The gamer smiles, grits his teeth. "Don't what? It's true, and you know it. A fucking system! That's what it is! You and me and Near and L. We're all tools! You think he was the first L? You think Near will be the last? It doesn't fucking matter, Mello!" His eyes are wide, wide and green and frighteningly beautiful. "There's nothing honorable in it. No Justice. No Right. No Wrong. Just spoiled children trying to win."

Mello looks at the redhead in a way he never has before. This is not third-place Matt. Not anti-social Matt. Not puppy-dog Matt following his every command. What he sees is Matt, calm, accepting, thoughtful Matt. Not as intelligent as Near. Not as easily stirred to action as himself. But more insightful than both of them combined.

"You're saying this is a game?"

"A game with high stakes. Do you disagree?"

"No, I just…" Mello lowers the gun, calms himself. "I just think that…what you said…it reminds me a lot of L. That's all."

* * *

_A ten year-old Mello stares around the dimly lit room in awe. He's here to meet L…again. He doesn't know now, will not know until just before he leaves Wammy's, how rare…how special…it is for a student to meet the real thing face to face. Even Near, always first, never will. _

"_Hello, Mello."_

_L is sitting in a chair. On the table before him is rather large piece of strawberry cheesecake. He looks very much like he did that evening at the monastery, though perhaps a bit exhausted._

"_Hello." _

"_Roger tells me you're fighting with Near again."_

"…_yes…"_

"_And that you've befriended that Matt boy."_

"…_I guess…"_

_The dead-eyed man offers him one of his strange, lipless smiles. "That's good. Matt is intelligent but lacks confidence. He needs your help."_

"_Oh…but…but doesn't that go against…I shouldn't help him, should I?"_

"_Why not?"_

"_Because if he becomes better, my chances of becoming L will drop."_

_A silence falls between them. Mello shifts uncomfortably. L merely stares at him and licks some frosting from his fork. Finally…_

"_Isn't it better, though, to help your friend?"_

_Mello's response is immediate. "Not if it keeps me from getting ahead."_

_At this L smiles. "Tell me, Mello, what do you think of Justice?"_

"_Justice?" Mello frowns. "I don't really know what you mean by that."_

"_I mean, how do you know which side of an argument is correct?"_

_Mello thinks. He doesn't want to disappoint L. He must…he must think of a good…a flawless…answer._

"_The…side that's correct…is whichever side comes out the winner."_

"_Excellent answer." L is not smiling. He regards the boy with something of a living death-mask. "Your chance of becoming L has just increased."_

_Mello tries not to allow his elation to creep too much into his face. "…and Matt?" _

"_Continue to be his friend. He is no threat to you."_

"_Why?"  
_

"_The answer to that…when you understand it, you will have the right to call yourself my equal."_

* * *

And now he gets it. Now what L was telling him is painfully clear. The reason he and Near were chosen, the reason Matt was not, is because they see the world as L did. In all their differences, this is the one fact in which they all three are—were, in L's case—brutally alike. But with these words the redhead has broken into their inner circle. The coldness in his eyes, the brutal practicality of his speech...

"_There's nothing honorable in it. No Justice. No Right. No Wrong."_

In that instant, Matt achieved L-status.

And at this knowledge, Mello feels his heart has broken. "Matt." He drops the gun completely, grabs the redhead by the arms and shakes him. "That isn't true!"

"It is. You _know_ it is."

"Then lie to me! Tell me there is Good and Evil! Tell me there's a…"

"A what?"

"Never mind." Mello pulls away. "We should…we should go over the plan again."

"All right." Matt buttons his fly and jerks his shirt back on before turning with practiced nonchalance to the computer screens. "Takada's show goes off the air at seven p.m. At approximately seven twenty-five she will leave the news building with an entourage of body guards. At this time I pull up in the Mustang and fire a smoke bomb into the crowd. At the same time, you will drive in on a motorcycle disguised as one of her body guards. You will then…"

Mello doesn't listen to Matt's words—he knows the plan by heart. Instead, he becomes lost in the tone of the redhead's voice, in the matter of fact, almost bored baritone with which he describes this doomed, highly dangerous plan.

"…you will reach the church at approximately eight forty seven a.m., at which time…Mello, what _are_ you going to do once you reach the church?"

"Wait." Mello fingers his crucifix distractedly. "Wait for Takada to die of a heart attack."

"And what will you do when she does?"

"N-nothing." Mello's grip around the rosary tightens. "Near will...he'll know exactly what to do."

Perhaps it's the shame of forfeit. Perhaps it's the fact that he's just touched most intimately his only friend. Whatever the reason, Mello feels the sudden urge to get out, to run blindly through the city, to absorb its grayness and fill himself with stone so that he becomes heavy and can sink safely beneath the earth. But if he were buried, Mello would not be able to look into Matt's eyes—green and raw like uncut emeralds. He would not be able to smell the sweat and shampoo and color-treatment of his hair, hear the constant video game music issuing from his DS. Even the warmth of his ash-tasting lips might somehow erase itself from his memory.

"I'm going to follow Takada again today." Matt pulls his vest back on and casts about for his misplaced goggles. "Just to make sure she doesn't suddenly change her routine."

Mello nods dumbly.

"While I'm gone, you should contact that…that Lidner woman. Make sure Near is…paying attention."

"There's no need." The blonde breathes in shakily, trying to summon the adrenaline necessary to push through these last few hours. "He'll understand."

"…suit yourself." The redhead turns to leave.

"H-hey, Matt?"

He pauses, turns. "What is it?"

"Nothing, I…that package. Have you opened it?"

"Oh." Matt turns to the package, still sitting by the couch where he left it two days ago. "No, I forgot. I'll open it when I get back." He offers the blonde a weak smile and leaves, taking a badly bent cigarette from his pocket and lighting it on the way out. Mello is left in the silent apartment, feeling as useless as he always blames Matt for being. He tries to go over the Kira case in his head, tries to watch the news, but it seems so pointless now.

_In three days I'll be dead. _

Mello redresses and exits the apartment.

* * *

Matt sits outside the news building, waiting and smoking, replaying the day's events over and over inside his brain. _Mello, I didn't know you…_

Even in his thoughts, he is afraid to say it, afraid to remember that the cold, religious, blue-eyed blonde he has loved since childhood is capable of being human after all. No, that's not true. Mello is human, too human, and this humanity has always been his downfall. He isn't gay. Matt has always known this. Mello embraced him because the end is drawing close, and Matt is the only person he cares for enough to attempt holding on to.

_It's out of his system now. He won't touch me anymore._

There is no relief in this thought, no easing of conscious or thoughts of closure. Maybe Matt needs it too. Maybe he's just as lonely and afraid.

Takada appears in the plaza, surrounded by body guards. Lidner is there, her blond hair and unbeautiful but somehow eye-catching face sticking out like a sore thumb. How did Mello buy her trust, anyway? Sex? Cash? Drugs? He's probably happier not knowing.

Waiting until the group is a safe distance away, Matt begins to follow. These actions are so deeply ingrained they feel automatic. The redhead's thoughts are scattered, divided between the present and the memory of Mello's lips upon his own. He begins to feel flushed again and shifts his hips subtly as he walks. _Since when does Mello make me hot?_

Since everything—his thoughts, his job, his life—became about Mello. This is not a blind or forced devotion; Matt is neither love-struck nor a serf. Rather, he has sold his soul out of boredom, because he was out of money and a part of him missed his one-time friend. Still, it's past the point where motives matter. Despite Mello's calculations, Matt is certain that he, too, will die.

In the face of his imminent demise, the redhead doesn't bother feeling guilty for what has happened. He is, however, deeply confused by it.

_I need to talk to Mello._

Matt abandons Takada at yet another hotel. He gets on his cell and calls the only contact in his address book.

_Ring._

Nothing.

_Ring_.

Still nothing.

_Ring._

Still no…"

Matt hears the static of Mello fumbling with the phone on the other end, then a monotonous drone. He rolls his eyes. _You __**hung up**__ on me? _Sometimes the blonde really _is_ a teenager, but it doesn't matter. Matt can find out exactly where he is.

* * *

Mello digs madly through one of the old mafia hideout's storage sheds. Piles of boxes surround him, illuminated by a single, flickering bulb. Not likely to find what he is looking for, the blonde tears at them anyway. This is not as important as the Kira case, but he cares about it just as much.

No one…no one would understand except for Matt…and Near, goddamn it! Maybe Near… But Mello doesn't like Near and he does li…well, shit, he likes Matt enough to…t-to…

Ring

_Fuck._

Ring.

_No, Matt. Not now_.

Ri…

He opens the phone, stares desperately at the caller id, and shoves it angrily into a nearby box. He can't deal with this. Not right now. First he must find those papers. _Somewhere…I left them…didn't think that I…that I would want…_

Mello curses as, with a crash, several crates fall on top of him. They're heavy, damn it, and send up clouds of dust. He starts to cough, lungs—weakened by smoke and heat during _the accident_—tingling unpleasantly. _Damn it! Where are those papers?_

He doesn't know why he cares so much. The articles he seeks have little to do with the Kira case or himself. No, perhaps the latter is an unfair assessment. These papers represent to Mello something that he cannot satisfactorily explain. He thinks back.

* * *

"_Hello, Mello."_

"_Hello."_

_Six months have passed since their last meeting. Appearing even more exhausted than last time, L peers at Mello from across the coffee table. The blonde is excited. Perhaps, he's about to become the next L. _

"_I'm sorry to have called you here on such short notice," the detective begins, "but there is something…something personal…that I want to discus with you."_

"_Oh?" Mello cocks his head. "What is it?"_

"_I…" For once L seems at a loss for words. "Do you know why I asked you to come here?"_

"_Because I have that look in my eye. That look like Near's."_

"_Incorrect. I asked for you not because you are smart but because you are interesting."_

_Mello's lips twitch. "Interesting enough to become the next L?"_

"_No." L shakes his head. "Being L has little to do with being interesting. The reason I asked for you is because I want to tell you a story."_

"…_a story?" _

_L nods._

"_A story about what?"  
_

"_About the BB murder case, and…well, you'll be able figure the rest out for yourself. That's why I picked you."_

_And L begins._

* * *

"Mello?" Matt stands in the doorway, dust from the crates mingling with the smoke from his cigarettes. Behind his goggles, his eyebrow twitches restlessly. "What the hell are you doing?"

_The fucker tracked my cell phone._

"Looking..." Mello clears his throat. "Just looking for something."

The redhead sits on the floor beside him. "Want help?"

"No. No, Matt." Mello stares at the ground. "You should stay away from me."

"Why?"

"Because I…" Mello falters as the redhead grasps his wrist and jerks him around.

"At least look at me."

But Mello can't. If he does his mind, already reeling and slightly off-kilter because of the Kira case, will go into overload. He may be a genius, but he isn't…

"Just stop thinking for once." Matt is close to him, very, _very_ close. "You don't have to think about these things so much. Everything will be fine!"

"They won't." Mello grabs the redhead by the collar and pulls him even closer. "Things will never be all right, Matt. Even you know that!"

"Yeah, I know."

"Why the fuck doesn't that bother you?"

"If you can handle it, so can I."

The silence that follows is drawn out and sulfurous with tension. Mello's grip on the redhead tightens; his gaze bears down with pleading anger on Matt's, whose own eyes are lost beneath a pall of greenish plastic. However, as awkward as this silence is, there is a truth in it. Something deep, inexplicable and resonant passes between them. The dusty air smells of death and ill-kept secrets. None are spoken, but all lay brutally bare before them.

And though these secrets bring no closure, no end to their madness and despair, at least their insanity is honest now, not masked by a lifetime of tarnished childhoods and regret. Mello is still concerned with blasphemy and status. Matt is still concerned with Mello's concern for blasphemy and status. It's a dysfunctional relationship, but, for the final days of their existence, it will suit just fine. They have no more misgivings, and, even if they did, there is no time left.

Matt's face is close, so close that the blonde can see the almost imperceptible creases of a young chain smoker at each corner of his lips. Unable to help himself, he removes the cigarette from the redhead's lips.

"Why did you do that?"

"It makes your breath stink." With a resolve that borders violent, Mello kisses Matt full on the mouth. He forces the redhead back onto a pile of boxes. The cardboard gives, and papers flutter everywhere. Breathing in the scent of rotten newsprint and lingering cigarettes, he allows himself to laugh.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." Carefully, Mello removes the crucifix from around his neck and sets it aside, in a box where each is sheltered from the other. At this Matt pulls off his goggles and gives the blonde a questioning look. It is returned with another sinful kiss, ungentle hands removing his vest. Mello is not hasty now; his movements are controlled. He wants to do this, blasphemy be damned! Even if it's wrong, even if it's disgusting and queer and goes against every belief about morals he wishes to hold on to, he will not hold back and he will not apologize. As with every aspect of his life, this is a battle Mello will strive to win.

"Mello?"

But Matt is already on the floor, already shaking in fear and anticipation as his pants are forcefully removed. The blonde is taken aback by his lack of shame. However, he hesitates to say he is surprised; Matt is not one to take on notions of what is the right thing to do or otherwise. Unassuming, he meets things as they come. This is a trait Mello would come to envy if he paid enough attention.

"Mel…Mello, what are you doing?"

"Be quiet, Matt."

Through his lidded eyes and shock of yellow bangs, Mello watches Matt's expression shift slightly towards puzzlement. At the same time, he reaches into his own pants, pumping the hardness that resides beside his gun and grins. _I must look demented. _He _feels_ demented, damn it! He feels possessed and evil, and when he finally shoves the redhead's legs apart and drives home he is unable to say whether what he is taking part in is rape or merely sex.

"Sh-shit! Holy _fuck!_ Mello! Mello, sto…" Tears are streaming down Matt's face. They are not tears of emotion, of anger or sorrow or fear. Rather, Matt cries simply because it hurts. And for this the blonde is thankful. Pain is uncomplicated. He knows just how to deal with it.

"Shut up, Matt. It's not that bad."

"H-how the fuck would you know?!"

"Shit! It's not as if…come on, Matt…come on…calm down." He kisses him, and the redhead's body loosens just enough for Mello to get in another thrust. "See, it's not bad. It's not bad, Mattie," he whispers into the redhead's hair.

"Uhh…" Said hacker moans quietly. He doesn't seem convinced, but he isn't struggling either. "Shit, man. Warn me next time."

How like Matt. How ridiculously and stupidly and painfully like Matt. It almost isn't real: how someone can remain so totally unaffected by this. Well, Mello supposes that he has been affected, but Matt is a Wammy kid after all and stubborn in his mannerisms.

"If it hurts I'll stop."

"A…a little late, isn't it?"

Matt offers him a smirk, and in it Mello finds some measure of forgiveness. This allows him to continue, and Matt, though he doesn't seem to like it, remains mercifully silent. Flesh meets flesh. Virginal blood seeps into cardboard and spreads across the concrete. Mello is enveloped in a heat that creeps into his brain until his vision bursts, a phosphorescent fountain of warmth and whiteness. As he comes down, he looks at Matt and fully realizes his pained expression.

"Shit…why did you…let me do that?"

Matt just shakes his head and sighs in relief as the blonde's arousal is removed. "Don't…worry. It was because I…you were…"

The tear streaks dry slowly on the redhead's face and, touching his own cheek, Mello realizes he hasn't been the only one crying.

"It's okay." Matt runs his hair gently through the blonde's bangs, shaking with the force of his renewed sobbing. "I'm scared too, but it will be all right."

_We're both such filthy liars._

* * *

-**UsuakariTOT**

**A/N: I put this out a week later than intended, but I feel like it turned out pretty well. I hope I didn't disappoint anyone by making the sex non-graphic. That's not what I want this story to be about (though, if you like that sort of thing, some of my Yugioh fiction might suffice). I hope I didn't make anyone too OOC. I did my best to keep things fairly balanced.**

**Please review.**


	5. The Skeptics

**St. Michael and the Damned Apostle**

"_**Nothing can have value without being an object of utility."**_

_**-Karl Marx**_

**Part Five: The Skeptics **

* * *

Two days from death:

Matt awakens in the apartment. He is lying on the bed, enveloped by the glow of nearby monitors. Staring up at the slowly revolving ceiling fan, memories return to him. _We were at the warehouse and…Mello…he did that and I…must have passed out. He took me home._

Matt tries to sit up, attempts in vain to look around for Mello, but he can't. At even the slightest movement his body screams in agony.

_Damn it. This is embarrassing._

He entertains the idea of calling out for the blonde but chokes almost instantly on the shame of it. He'll just have to wait. This isn't…isn't so bad. Shocking maybe. Fucking unbelievable. But not bad; Matt can handle pain.

_What was he looking for in the warehouse, anyway? Something to do with Kira?_

Matt wishes desperately for a cigarette. There's a pack in his jeans pocket, but they're…where are his jeans anyway? Looking down, Mall begins to flush. Skinny, white, _bare _legs glare back at him. _What the fuck happened to my pants?_

"How…are you feeling?"

Laundry basket in one hand, gun in the other, hair jerked back into a messy bun and deadpan stare in perfect order, Mello is standing in the doorway. Matt's awareness of his lack of clothing increases tenfold. He wishes desperately that the blonde would not look at him. Aside from his shirt, he is completely naked. Even the redhead's goggles are nowhere to be seen.

"D-don't…Mel…at least let me put some clothes on."

Matt attempts to turn his body, only to cry out sharply as his lower back screams in protest. Mello drops the gun and laundry basket and draws closer. He looks fairly troubled.

"You shouldn't…damn it, Matt! Don't move! You're hurting yourself!"

Though his body no longer struggles against itself, the redhead cannot bring himself to meet the other's gaze. He feels suddenly ashamed. He shouldn't; Mello was the one who came on to him after all, but the blonde's eyes on his unclothed body cause knots to tie themselves inside Matt's belly. "Just…just leave me alone a minute. I want to take a shower."

"Fine." Body jerking to attention, Mello leaves. The redhead, now blissfully alone, exhales softly in relief. _All I have to do is get to the bathroom and I can… _With painstaking slowness, Matt uses what little upper body strength he possesses to pull himself towards the edge of the mattress. He reaches the floor in the way of a paraplegic schnauzer: face first, hindquarters sliding uselessly behind. Matt's lower body hits the floor with a thud, and it is a testament to his ego that he does not cry out. Again, he craves a cigarette…or better yet some codeine, anything with a kick. Bracing his back against the nightstand, the redhead forces his seditious legs to stabilize beneath him. Then he stands and begins the long and painful stagger towards the bathroom.

Which ends abruptly as he trips over a nefariously place bundle of computer cables.

"Fuck!" The word effectively destroys what semblance of stealth Matt has been able to create.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" Once more Mello is standing over him, chocolate in hand and crucifix still swinging from the haste of his sudden entrance. "If you can't fucking walk, Matt, you should have called for me!"

"Shut up!" Matt glares angrily at the floor. "This is your fault, anyway!"

Mello doesn't reply but—none too gently—jerks the hacker to his feet. He then attempts to frog-march the boy across the apartment only to stop dead in his tracks when he notices the blood that has begun dribbling down his thighs.

"Damn it!"

"What?!" Matt looks around stupidly, only to blanch when he realizes where Mello's gaze is directed. "S-stop it!" His voice cracks.

"Wha…oh, grow up, Matt! Can't you see you're getting blood all over the carpet?"

"FUCK YOU, MELLO!"

Wrenching himself angrily from the blonde's grasp, Matt pitches forward through the bathroom door. He lands with a heavy crack on the yellowing linoleum and covers is face in embarrassment as his eyes begin to tear. It is only when he feels his body being lifted that the redhead looks up. Mello glares back at him and—staggering only a little beneath his weight—sits him gently on the toilet.

"Don't move. I'll start a bath." By bath, Mello really means a shower. There is no tub in their shit-hole apartment, only a standing-room shower stall with dimensions roughly equal to those of a coffin. He turns on the spigot and waits as the water, coming out a little brownish at first, slowly begins to heat. Matt watches him nervously, pulling his shirt as far down as it will go over his trembling thighs. He wishes desperately that Mello would leave.

Instead, deeming the water warm enough, the blonde turns and offers Matt his leather-clad hand. "Come here." Seeing no other options, the hacker allows himself to be taken by the wrist and pulled carefully to his feet. He stares tiredly at the steaming water, keenly aware of Mello's body pressing against him from behind. He hears the taller man sigh, feels his hands leave his wrists and travel down to them hem of his shirt before…

"W-what the hell, Mello?! Stop that!"

Snorting in exasperation, Mello continues attempting to remove the redhead's shirt. "What are you saying, idiot?" His lips twitch in annoyance as the garment becomes stuck on the other's tensed-up shoulders. "You weren't planning on bathing with clothes on, were you?"

"No, I…I can do it myself! Just back off a second, would you?"

Mello does so, and Matt falls promptly on his ass. Tearing up again because of the pain, he manages to struggle out of his shirt and begins dragging himself towards the shower. He's almost made it when Mello, evidently determined to interfere, grabs him under the armpits and hoists him bodily to his feet.

"Stop crawling like a dog. If you need help, ask me!"

"I'm fine, Mello! Just leave me alone!"

"Have you noticed what happens every time I do that?" Mello, still fully clothed, climbs right into the shower with him. "You fall over!"

Matt doesn't reply. Forced into such close proximity with the physically magnetic blonde, he is even more aware of his own defects, of his bony arms and emaciated chest, of the light spray of acne on his freckled shoulders and his skin, so pale the veins show blue beneath it. He really wishes Mello wouldn't look at him like that. With his unkempt hair and his cold eyes and his unapologetic scars Mello is beautiful. Matt wonders why it's taken him so long to realize this.

"Bitch all you want, Matt. I'm not leaving this time." Mello steps out a moment to strip down to his underwear. Having struggled out of his soaking leather, the blonde once more squeezes into the tiny shower. "Don't be such a girl about your body. It's not as if I'm in any position to criticize."

Matt stares stupidly at the lean muscle covering the taller's chest and abdomen and wonders just what in all hell he's talking about. The scars stand out in delicate ridges on the left side of his body, stretching stiffly as the tendons beneath them flex and twitch. He is intimidated by the power of this lithe body, by the angry vitality that courses through it.

"See?" Mello smirks bitterly. "Look who's staring this time."

"That isn't…I'm not…" Gaze hidden beneath the fire-red hair plastered to his face, Matt allows his hand to rest lightly on Mello's chest. Beneath the flesh, beneath the scars and sinew and muscle and bone, he can feel his heartbeat. The pulsations make him somehow less nervous.

"Let's…" Mello puts a palm over his outstretched forearm. "Let's clean you up." Grabbing a bar of soap and a washcloth, he begins to work a lather into Matt's hair. The redhead squirms as the soap slides down his back and arms. It feels weird; he's never been washed by someone else before.

"I'm making you uncomfortable." Mello, it seems, is embarrassed by Matt's embarrassment.

"It's just…a little different."

Matt flushes suddenly as Mello begins to drag the soapy washcloth across his body. He cleans him in quick, rough strokes, leaving the skin in his wake an agitated pink. His movements are deliberate and impersonal. Never once meeting the redhead's gaze, Mello washes under his arms between his shoulders, across his nipples and down the pale contours of his chest and abdomen. It is obvious to Matt that he is trying to make their situation as nonsexual as possible. However, if this is true, why did he offer in the first place?

"I'm going to clean you…down there, too. Like you said, it's my fault, so…"

"Wait! Mello, don't…"

But already the blonde's hand is sliding down Matt's spine. With the fluidity of the soap that precedes it and a resolve that is really quite remarkable, he slips his fingers between Matt's legs. The redhead's cheeks flush with embarrassment…then pain as the soap stings his abused entrance. It _burns_, burns so badly he's afraid he might just cry.

"Loosen up, Matt. It's not as if I'm enjoying this either."

The redhead nods but finds himself unable to comply. The idea of lye eating out his insides goes beyond unpleasant.

"Matt!"

"Goddamn it, Mello, I…" Matt whimpers as something begins leaking out of him. It's _semen_ he realizes, semen and bloody, soapy bubbles slithering down his thighs.

Having noticed by now as well, Mello blanches and looks away. "Sh-shit…I didn't…and the soap…forgot…"

Matt is only half listening, more concerned with removing the blood and cum from inside his body than anything the blonde might have to say. He sighs in relief as the pain dies down, slumps forward unconsciously…straight into Mello.

"Uhh…sorry." He jerks back, slips, and bashes into the hot water tap before being hauled forcibly back to balance by his companion who grasps his arm tightly and regards him with a wild-eyed, almost terrified smirk.

For a moment there is silence.

Then what remains of the world Matt understands vaporizes instantly beneath the glare of Mello's madness.

"Let me touch you."

Without waiting for a reply, the blonde drags him closer. His hands slide across Matt's back, over his ribs and down…down…

"S-stop it, Mello! It hurts! I don't…"

"Don't worry." He breathes heavily in the redhead's ear. "I won't do…do that again. I just want…"

And Matt, whether out of lust or relief, kisses him softly on the lips. His kiss is reciprocated. Hands move. Bodies come together.

The cold steel of Mello's crucifix is warmed, pressed between the meeting of their living flesh.

* * *

"_**Lord, have mercy upon us."**_

"_Christ, have mercy upon us."_

"_**Lord, have mercy upon us.**__** O Christ, hear us."**_

"_O Christ, graciously hear us."_

"_**O God the Father of heaven."**_

"_Have mercy upon us."_

"_**O God the Son, Redeemer of the world."**_

"_Have mercy upon us."_

"_**O God the Holy Spirit."**_

"_Have mercy upon us."_

_A young Mihael Keehl struggles not to doze off as the litany continues. His eyes are closed, head bowed in supplication, yet he can still feel the body heat of the children surrounding him, smell their stench—forgotten, without parents, unloved. It is in moments of despair like this that he wishes desperately for the divine mercy of the Lord._

"_**Holy Mother of God."**_

"_Pray for us."_

"_**Holy Virgin of virgins."**_

"_Pray for us."_

"_**S**__**aint Michael."**_

"_Pray for us."_

_Mihael's cheeks flush with an unholy pride. Saint Michael the Archangel. His saint. His namesake and protector. If only he too had a flaming sword! Could vanquish Evil and exact Justice as did God's divine General! Then all that was wrong in the child's world would be corrected. No more orphanage. No more cold and hunger and disease. No more crying children. No more nightmares. _

_No black-haired, dark-eyed youth standing before his __father with a gaze of doomed devotion._

"_**Saint Philip."**_

"_Pray for us."_

"_**Saint Bartholomew."**_

"_Pray for us."_

"_**Saint Matthew."**_

"_Pray for us."_

_Though his eys are closed, Mihael can, in his mind's eye, see the towering height of the cathedral's vaulted ceiling, the butresses, the altars, the stained glass windows like pillars and weals of multicolored fire cutting apart the gray sameness of the stone. He loves the Church and he loves God…because loving God is safe. God can never leave you._

"_**Saint Francis."**_

"_Pray for us."_

"_**All ye holy Priests and Levites."**_

"_Pray for us."_

"_**All ye holy Monks and Hermits."**_

"_Pray for us."_

"_**Saint Mary Magdalene."**_

"_Pray for us."_

_Unlike the other children, Mihael already knows the Litany of the Saints by heart. He has paid attention well in all his classes, has excelled in math, writing, grammar, religious studies. His capacity for language—Latin and Englsih so far but more soon to come—is also unparalleled by the others._

'_That's why, L picked me,' he thinks. 'In three days, I'll leave with him…and prove that I am worthy.'_

_Of this, he is completely confident._

"_**From all evil."**_

"_Good Lord, deliver us."_

"_**From all deadly sin."**_

"_Good Lord, deliver us."_

"_**From thine anger."**_

"_Good Lord, deliver us."_

"_**From sudden and unrepentant death."**_

"_Good Lord, deliver us."_

_The voice of Father Matthais never halts, never changes. Like the effigies of the saints standing in the church's alcoves, his voice is at once immovable and relentless. For Mihael's mind—always whirling, clawing at itself, lost in the chaos of profound intelligence—this voicce is a godsend. He doesn't even have to think of a response. All replies have been ordained._

"_**O God, save thy servants."**_

"_That put their trust in thee."_

"_**Be unto us, O Lord, a tower of strength."**_

"_From the face of the enemy."_

"_**Let the enemy prevail nothing against us."**_

"_Nor the son of wickedness approach to afflict us."_

"_**O Lord, deal not with us after our sins."**_

"_Neither reward us according to our iniquities."_

_Mihael thinks of his beautiful mother, of his stillborn baby sister. They are in heaven, and one day he hopes to join them. As for his father…well this is one of the few things the child is unsure of. Is his father's soul in heaven? The man who killed him certainly isn't. This is a matter about which he has been meaning to ask Father Matthais for some time…but hasn't.__ Mihael fears the idea of hell more than he has feared anything in his entire life._

_He doesn't want to get burned._

"_**The Lord be with you."**_

"_And with thy spirit. Let us pray."_

_The rustling of pages being turned by all children except for Mihael. Then…_

"_O God, whose nature and property is ever to have mercy and to forgive: receive our humble petitions; and though we be tied and bound by the chain of our sins, yet let the pitifulness of thy great mercy loose us. We beseech the, O Lord, mercifully to hear the prayers of thy humble servants, and to forgive the sins of them that confess the same unto thee: that they may obtain…"_

* * *

"…that they may obtain of thy loving-kindness pardon and peace. O Lord, we pray thee, shew forth upon us thy srvants the abundance of thy unspeakable mercy: that we may be delivered from the chain of our sins, and from the punishment which for the same we have most…most righteously deserved."

Mello stops here. He could go on, could finish reciting a prayer that, in effect, plees for hours for divine mercy, for salvation and for justice. But he doesn't. Since he first laid eyes on the visage of Saint Michael, Mello has prayed, begged, pleaded every day for what? Forgiveness? Love? And when has God ever answered?

_By giving me a purpose…to become like L._

A purpose that, ultimately has gone unrealized. That tortures him. Makes him hate himself and the world around him. That has brought him nothing but grief.

_Matt, then. By giving me Matt, God has answered my prayers._

But this doesn't seem right, either. It is Matt alone who gives himself. Matt alone who stands beside him, not because of divine relegation…because of choice.

"Aren't you going to finish?" From his position stretched out on the couch, said redhead regards Mello from beneath his bangs. He hasn't retrieved his goggles, causing his eyes—of lamentable vision—to remain deliciously unfocused.

"No." Mello uses his mouth instead to snap up a bite of chocolate. "It just repeats itself."

"Aw, but I like to hear you pray."

"I thought you were an athiest."

"Yes, but a reluctant one." Matt sits up, flinching a little bit in pain. "It's true I don't believe in God, but I envy those who can."

"Yeah." Mello stares out the evening. _Already evening. _Only one day left. "Me too."

"At least recite the end of it." Matt gets up, limps to stand beside him.

"Why? Litanies aren't meant to be said alone, anyway."

"Because this one has a uplifting ending. All prayers do. That's why I like them."

"…why don't you say one, then? A prayer that you like."

"Fine, asshole." Matt rolls his eyes and begins:

"Saint Michael the Archangel, Powerful Spirit of Truth, take my hand and lead me to Divine Truth. Protect me from all the evil in the world. Guard me and compensate for all my weaknesses. Change, bless, and restore the consequences of all my mistakes. Carry me on the wings of your love and might to the Throne of God and pray to Him with me forever. Amen."

"How…how the hell do you even know that one? I thought your family was Jewish."

Matt shrugs. "It got kind of stuck in my head, I guess. After hearing you say it so many times. Hey, can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"What you were looking for at the warehouse. Did you find it?"

"Yeah." Mello snaps of some chocolate and chews it pensively. "It was just this." Fishing a zip drive from his pocket, the blonde hands it to Matt.

"Huh?" Holding the device within a hairsbreadth of his ailing eyes, the hacker gives the device the once over before handing it back. "What's on it?"

"Nothing important, really. That is…it doesn't concern us."

"Oh yeah? So what are you going to do with it?"

"Do you really want to know?"

For a moment Matt gives the blonde a hard look then throws back his head and laughs. "Not really. You can keep your secrets and I'll keep mine." Walking back to the couch, he almost trips over the package still lying on the floor.

"You still haven't opened it?"

He looks sheepish. "Not yet."

"How about now, then?"

"Okay." Clumsily—because of both his sore body and natural awkwardness—Matt sits on the couch and pulls the package into his lap. Mello comes to stand behind him, smirking quietly as the redhead struggles with the butcher paper and excess masking tape. Finally, the wrappings relent. For a moment Matt say's nothing; he just stares tacitly at the blonde's morbid idea of a present.

"Wear it, you know, for protection."

The hacker nods dumbly and holds the bulletproof vest up before his eyes. His hands are shaking. "You got two, right? One for yourself."

"A bulletproof vest won't do shit for me, Matt. Not for what I'm up against."

"…then don't go through with it." Turning excitedly where he sits, the redhead grabs Mello by the arms and smiles madly up at him. "Forget the whole thing. Let's disappear! God knows we're fucking smart enough! Let Near figure things out for himself if he's such a damn genius! Go back to using our real names and…"

Mello punches him across the face. Hard. For a moment time seems to still; he is running beside a wave of light. Time freezes Distance distorts and turns in upon itself. All he can see is the bright, startled greenness of Matt's eyes, his read hair—faded now, showing brown at the roots. Then existence rights itself, and the hacker goes flying into the coffee table.

"You don't understand, Matt." Now it is Mello's hands that tremble. "There's no one else, no one else who can…who _will_. If I don't do this, who the fuck will?"

"Oh shut the hell up!" Matt glares at him from where he lies splayed across the table. "You've never been a goddamn hero, Mello, so why pretend? Why can't you be selfish like you always are? Why can't you just…"

"I _am_ being selfish! Don't you realize that? You're right about Near being a genius. Given enough time, he could find enough proof to convict Kira on his own…which is precisely what I refuse to allow! I won't let Near solve this on his own! That's why I have to do this! T-to prove to him that I…I…"

"…that you're valuable." Slowly Matt gets to his feet, licks the blood oozing down his chin. "Really, Mello, is that worth dying for?"

"Yes." The conviction in Mello's voice startles even himself. "Only by helping Near, can I truly defeat him. He will realize his dependence upon me and know, always know, that I won."

"But you'll be dead."

"It will save me the trouble of killing myself if Near succeeds without me."

Matt walks around the couch so they are face to face. "Why not try catching Kira on your own, like you were doing before."

"I…I can't. Matt, I'm not smart enough! I…you think I'm pretty pathetic, don't you?"

"No." Matt smiles at him. The cheek where Mello hit him is starting to bruise. "Just human, I guess. If you're set on dying, I won't stop you…but I won't let you be the only one, either."

"Matt, that's stupid! You don't understand! I…"

"I understand perfectly. If Near wins, then your life will be meaningless. Likewise, if you die, I'll be bored. Boredom is pretty meaningless too, don't you think?"

"We'll…we'll talk about this later, all right?" Mello runs his fingers through his still damp hair and sighs. He is tired, too exhausted even to coerce his friend into preserving his young, artificially-dyed existence. "I'm going to bed. You should too."

"Fine by me. Goodnight."

Mello turns to go. However, upon reaching the doorway, he turns to steal a final glance and the younger boy. Matt is still standing by the doorway. Without the goggles he looks older, almost normal, startlingly handsome. Gracefully, with fingers rendered dexterous through gaming and hacking into mainframes, he pulls out a lighter and holds it to the fresh cigarette trembling between his lips. The flame catches, and for a moment the hollows of Matt's face or illuminated.

He's crying again, Mello realizes. Silently. Out of frustration. Out of sadness. Because, deep down, Matt knows that neither of them wants to die.

* * *

-**UsuakariTOT**

**A/N: This chapter was really fun to write (sorry I took so long, by the way). Researching Catholic prayers is really interesting (the Litany of the Saints is **_**hella**_** long!). Also, I was doing my physics homework while writing this (thus the token allusion to on of Einstein's thought experiments). **

**By far my favorite part of this chapter is the last bit in which Mello explains his reasoning for what he's about to do. I think making this an act of selfishness follows his character more accurately. I adore Mello, but let's face it: He is NOT an altruist. He is concerned with winning above all else, his own existence and (I hate to say it) probably Matt included. This doesn't mean he doesn't **_**care**_** about or **_**love**_** Matt (both the manga and anime contain that whole 'Matt, I'm sorry' scene), but is actions (i.e. using Matt as bait) don't exactly scream 'Omg, Matt! I totally love you more than anything! Let's run away and get married and somehow have babies and...' You get the idea. **

**So, unless he had a serious moral revelation after being blown half to shit, I'd say Mello isn't exactly helping Near out of the kindness of his heart. Still, it is the flaws of our favorite characters that make us love them, no? This is, in effect, my only point. Pretty intelligent, I know…riiiiiiight. Anyway, thank you for reading this chapter (and horribly long author's note). I update slowly, I know, but I TOTALLY WILL NOT ABANDON THIS FIC!!!**

**Thanks again and please review.**


	6. The Other Note

**St Michael and the Damned Apostle**

_"One must not believe demons even when they speak the truth." _

_-Saint Thomas_

**Part Five: The Other Note**

**

* * *

**

_Matt is wandering the halls of Wammy's, and something about these halls is different and very wrong. The floors are still worn from genius children's footfalls. The walls are still painted an expensive and impersonal cream. Even the curtains—sewn from fine, dark cloth—are still heavy from years' accumulated dust. However, Matt cannot shake the entire non-stillness of this situation. Something inhuman—**too **__human—is alive and moving after him. The redhead's hair is like a beacon, so bright it transcends its own un-naturalness. It draws on the named and nameless force that follows him and—because his hair is part of him despite its artificiality—Matt cannot get away._

_He tears at himself, tries to strip the dye from his tangled tresses as he runs, but the color refuses to leave. Instead, it grows brighter, richer…until Matt's hair literally drips with deepest red. The color flies off his bangs as he sprints, leaves angry, crimson wheels on the walls and floor. He can feel it running down his shoulders, into his mouth. The color does all it can to entirely possess him._

_And still Matt runs. He curses the red and the **thing**__ it lures. He curses his smoke-scarred lungs and his laborious breathing. He even curses his own, fearfully pattering heart. However, he doesn't loose hope. Maybe Matt can get away._

_Then he sees it: the door at the end of the hall. The other doors that fly past as Matt runs will not open, or rather, he cannot stop running to find out. No. He can only move toward this one—this tall, unyielding, blood-red door. _

_He stops before it._

**_Locked._**

_And turns to the monster that now has him…_

_…and sees everything in shades of red._

_

* * *

_

One more day…

* * *

Sunlight does not filter well through city smog. It is perverted by the dirty air, broken into something gray and dim and in every way unvirgin. However, even in its disgrace—in its lessened spectrum—light illuminates. It is because of this illumination that Matt is shocked from his nightmare. Mello, too, awakes. They've slept in later than intended…but it doesn't matter. The plot is set.

No loose ends.

Or rather, too many. So many frayed, unfinished edges that their plan might collapse at any moment. Flaws so numerous they no longer warrant mending. There's nothing to be done but wait.

_Wait for death._

They cannot speak of it. Not on this tainted but sill lit morning. Matt merely stretches out lazily and lights a cigarette. Mello watches him for a moment, then averts his gaze. A slight redness of the eyes is all that remains of last night's tears. By contrast, the irritation make Matt's irises seem even greener.

"Where are your goggles?"

The hacker shrugs. "Don't remember. Can't see shit though."

Nodding, Mello allows himself to sink back into the ratty mattress. For a moment their situation seems blissfully ordinary. Just another morning. They'll get up. Matt will follow Takada. Mello will do whatever the fuck it is he does. They'll meet at the apartment around 10 p.m. and eat takeout for dinner. Mello will complain because the stir-fry's cold. Matt will pretend to listen. Afterwards, the blonde will shut himself up in the bedroom, and the hacker will sit on the couch and play racing games until he falls asleep…if he does. Perfect. Normal. They can pretend.

However, despite itself, the blonde's mind rejects this normalcy. He craves unconsciously to acknowledge, to somehow validate what, in twenty-four hours, will occur.

He does this by asking of Matt a deeply personal question.

"How did your parents die?"

Chuckling at the absurd, random and tactless nature of this inquiry, Matt tries halfheartedly to suck smoke back through his nose. "I don't remember."

"You're joking."

"No." With his regrettable eyesight, Matt tries to focus on the blonde. "When I was little…I used to think, you know…that I just sort of…spontaneous germination…out of the city streets…the concrete, maybe…I wasn't, and then..."

"…and then you started killing people with exploding watches."

"Yeah." No laugh this time. The smoggy light makes the hacker's skin look pale and sick. "I don't remember much before I met…before Whammy's…but I think I did. I think I've killed a lot of people."

"Me too. We both have."

"And we feel bad. But we don't feel as badly as we should."

"No." Mello gets up and stretches stiffly. Sometimes, in the mornings mostly, the scars feel foreign on his flesh. "But I guess we'll redeem ourselves tomorrow, right?"

"In others' eyes, yeah."

They are doing this for illogical and egotistic reasons. Mello, for revenge…because he hates losing. Matt, out of boredom…because he knows the blonde can't do it on his own. There is no morality in their actions. They don't want to save the world, and they really don't want to risk leaving it either. But they have to. For their own strange and stupid, selfish purposes.

"I just remembered something." Matt gets off the bed and casts about for his goggles and a pair of not so dirty blue jeans. "I'll be back in a few hours."

Mello nods and watches him leave. This time he asks no questions.

_After all, I have my own loose ends to tend to._

* * *

Between his thumb and index finger, Near holds the envelope at arms length. He handles it like something toxic…like an animal that wants to bite him. His name is written on the face of it in handwriting that is all too familiar and strangely undisguised.

_A letter from Mello._

Near doesn't bother asking Giovanni to have the paper analyzed, to look for poison or clues or something else mysterious. He knows Mello too well. That's not his style.

That, and sometimes its best to combat irrationality with the same.

So Near opens the letter and looks inside…and for the first time in a long time is quite surprised.

_He's returned it._

The photo of a childhood Mello. Well-groomed baby-blonde hair and unscarred skin and eyes too wild to quite be childish. Despite his shock, Near gazes at this visage for just a second before flipping it around. His message on the back of the photo is crossed out. Mello has written over it.

_"Memor meus visio."_

"Remember my face."

Near understands much of this. He understands that the Latin is symbolic of Mello's Catholicism. He understands that the phrase's meaning is intended for no higher purpose than mockery. He also understands that, because he returned the photo, Mello no longer cares if his identity is known. This can only mean that Mello intends to die…and there is only one thing for which Mello is willing to be killed.

_To catch Kira…incorrect. To beat me. For that, he would end his life._

And even this sentiment is something Near can understand.

What Near cannot understand is how Mello will accomplish this.

Or how he can possibly stop him.

* * *

18 hours…

"Hey Mello."

The blonde looks up at Matt, who has just entered the apartment. "What is it?"

"I got you something." Matt smirks. His fading hair is once again dyed a vivid red. "Here."

Deftly, Mello catches the memory stick in a gloved hand. He looks at it, then up at Matt. "You found it."

"Yeah. Just looked at the first line to make sure. Didn't read the rest. L told you something, did he?"

Mello nods and continues to stare at the stick in his hand. "Yeah. The third time I met him…he told me a story, and I thought…thought I should write it down."

"Three times." Behind goggles, Matt raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Most don't even meet him once. L must have liked you."

"Not enough to make me his heir."

"Enough _not_ to, at any rate."

A drawn out silence ensues. Mello sets the memory stick on the coffee table and turns his gaze back to Matt, who has taken out—but does not play—his DS. Sometimes he finds the redhead's logic unsettling. For all his intelligence, there are certain things Mello prefers not to think on too much. What Matt hints at is one of them. He favors, instead, his own straightforward distortion of reality. No gray areas. No guess work.

Hence the appeal of religion.

"You should tack on an author's note or something." Matt sits on the couch next to the blonde. "So people know who wrote it."

"Yeah." Mello does not address what lurks beneath the other's comment—why keep secret his identity? Won't he be dead soon anyway? "Maybe…Matt?"

Mello can't keep the question out of his voice as the redhead leans his head gently against his shoulder. This feels too personal, an invasion of space…but somehow the sensation is not unpleasant…nor unprecedented considering their actions yesterday.

_I had sex with Matt._

He still can't say it out loud. However, vocalization no longer matters. They don't have enough time to be bitter—to regret what, in any other situation, would be actions most regrettable. Mello is going to die, and Matt…

_He'll live. He has the vest._

These words do little to ease Mello's conscience. Matt, out of all the characters involved in the ghastly spectacle the Kira case has become, is the most innocent. He was never in the running to become L. He doesn't give a fuck about winning. All Matt is really good at is following orders…and then, only those given by a childhood friend. _I should have left him in L.A. Even living on the streets would be better than this bullshit. _

"What's wrong?" Matt's eyes are fixed on his dormant DS, yet he sees Mello in a way no other can. "You look kind of upset or something."

"I'm not." The blonde's lie is disguised poorly. It's meant as a formality, a confirmation that he is still his callous, angry, certain self rather than as an actual untruth. He runs a hand through the redhead's newly vibrant hair. "You know, I still don't understand why you're going through with all of this."

Matt shrugs. "Why not?"

"Because you'll die."

"I know."

"And that should scare you."

"I know."

"Then why…"

"I…I don't know. Not really." Matt cranes his neck to meet the other's sea-blue gaze. "It was something to do…and once I started I couldn't stop. Life's kind of like that, you know? We do shit without really knowing why, and then…you're not forcing me, Mello. Don't ever think that."

"I'm not. I don't." These lies, too, lack substance. Burying his gratitude in lust, Mello clutches at his crucifix and bends down to kiss Matt's semi-parted lips.

Though he probably expected it, the redhead's breath catches in his throat. Reaching up to tangle a hand in the blonde's unkempt hair, Matt doesn't seem to mind that he refuses to thank him for his loyalty outright. Mello is a man who speaks his thoughts through actions, and he is very lucky that the other knows this. Still, Mello can't ignore the guilt that eats at him. It is the guilt not of his responsibility for Matt's actions but of his relief _for_ these actions. The blonde can't get around it: He doesn't want to be alone.

They share another terrifyingly easy kiss. This time it is Matt's who initiates, Matt who sits up and pins Mello to the sofa so he cannot possibly get away. The blonde, for his part, allows this. Striving always for dominance has left him momentarily exhausted. For this instant, he will allow the redhead some control.

The violent passion Mello usually instigates is something altogether different from Matt's gentler form of love. The hacker is unhurried, almost lazy, in his sexual advances. He takes his time exploring the blonde's mouth, kissing a dawdling trail of kisses across the scarred ridges of his cheek. He doesn't pay attention to Mello's anxious sighs or the exasperated twitches of his aroused body. All his life, Matt has been told to hurry up, to keep going…so, in this, he takes his time…and Mello—whether because he knows this or because he feels bad for the redhead's looming death—lets him do so. Even as he grumbles, he appreciates the warmth of another body on his own.

"Do you remember when we were children…when L gave that computer interview…remember what Linda asked?"

This question distracts Mello from his frustration with Matt's slowness. He props himself up a bit to glance at the redhead. "Of course I remember. She asked him if there were things he was afraid of."

"Yeah, it was…"

"…a childish, cliché question."

"I disagree." Matt rests his chin thoughtfully on Mello's chest. The blonde can count his freckles. "I think it was the most insightful thing in the world to ask."

_"Why?" _Mello rolls his eyes. Despite himself, he is irritated with the other's contradictory opinion.

"Because fear's important. It can define people, drive them on, destroy them…"

"Save their lives." Grabbing Matt's pale wrist, Mello leans in so that the breath from their lips mingles within just an inch of space.

"Y-yeah. And L's reply. He said he was afraid of monsters."

"Especially the ones that lie."

"And what did he say about monsters who lie?"

Mello smiles grimly. They both remember. "He said that such a monster would eat him…because he was…"

"Because he was that monster."

They sit in silence for a while, each going over in his overachieving brain what transpired on that day that now seems lifetimes gone. Even now L's words refuse to make sense…but there is something of prophecy in them. Mello, with his ability to Believe in that which is baseless, probably appreciates this more so than the secular Matt. However, there is enough irony in L's words to make both of them shiver.

"He was already working on the Kira case at the time. Do you think he knew he'd fail?"

"No." Matt shakes his head, for once more resolute than Mello. "He couldn't have _known_…but perhaps he did anticipate a little."

"But L wasn't a monster…he didn't always lie."

Matt opens his mouth…and shuts it again when he sees the expression on the other's face. He doesn't have the heart to tell him, to tell Mello what he already knows to be true.

_The Kira case is a game…we are the players. The best players are those who lie. That's why Kira is winning…and L, L was a liar too…a liar who opposed Kira, but also a liar who used Kira's tactics…and he lost the game because Kira's lies were better…and I guess that means Kira is still the greater monster…but you wouldn't feel better if I told you so._

_

* * *

_

11 hours…

It is the deepest part of night—one of those lost hours between midnight and dawn that is black and silent and, for the insomniac, unbearably endless. Matt can't sleep. He stretches out on the couch, gaze lost in the bleeding shadows that play out their lives across the ceiling. Even knowing the horror that tomorrow brings, Matt is impatient for the end of night…for the end of the aloneness darkness forces him to bear. He thinks of going to Mello in the next room but decides against it.

The redhead doesn't want to disturb him.

_He's praying._

Latin—so faint it still seems silence—seeps out from the bedroom. If Matt holds his breath, if he remains so still even his atoms cease their buzzing, he can almost make it out…

…and then the prayers stop, and so too does the nighttime's quiet.

"Matt."

The redhead rises. He isn't wearing his goggles, but in such blackness it does not matter. He enters the bedroom by grace of memory and repetition. The instant his skinny thighs brush the mattress, Matt is pulled into Mello's intoxicating, venomous embrace.

"Can't sleep."

"Me neither."

"That's a first. You always sleep."

"Not now." The blonde's lips twitch in a way that is too soft for a smirk and too minute to form a smile…though in the darkness not even Matt can notice. "But I'm not in the mood to sleep anyway." He doesn't wait for the hacker to reply. Instead, Mello brings their lips violently together. The kiss is long and hard and painful in its emotion, and when they pull away both men are aroused and panting and a little bit hurt. However, they continue to tear into each other: Clothing is removed. Skin is marked by teeth and clawing nails. Coarse, gold hair mingles and sweats with that which is a noxious ruby red.

"…can I?"

"Mel…n-no…sore…"

"I don't…Matt, I don't care…"

The redhead's eyes roll back in pain as two of Mello's searching fingers grope his entrance. He grimaces but doesn't try to stop him. Life has taught Matt many things…not the least of which is the art of endurance. He can endure this pain; pain is so secondary anyway…such a simple, ignorable sensation.

Thinking this doesn't stop Matt from seeing red the moment Mello enters.

"F-fuck! Goddamn it Mello!"

"Sorry."

_He isn't…the bastard…_

In spite of the pain—perhaps because of it—Matt is still viciously aroused. His skin is alive with Mello's heat, his ears ringing with the blonde's grunts and sighs. Matt actually screams as a firm, scarred palm closes around his erection. Mello attends to him with rough, satisfying jerks, and Matt can feel his body tighten as it prepares to shoot its load.

And then all color burns away and all Matt can see is white.

* * *

9 hours…

Mello stares down at the hacker, now sleeping naked beside him on the cable-choked mattress. It is almost 6 a.m. and he has not slept a moment. Instead, in the spare minutes he's had between sex and prayer, Mello has been typing, adding the finishing touches to L's story:

_"In case anyone besides big-headed Near or the deluded murderer, Kira, is reading these notes, I shall at least perform the basic courtesy of introducing myself: I am your narrator, your navigator, your storyteller..."_

Smirking viciously, Mello savors the moment. Matt gave him good advice. He will taint Near's success…and humiliate him with the knowledge that, though Mello will come in second in the end, L told this tale to him. _Me. _It's a good feeling, being special.

_"For anyone but those two, my identity may be of no interest, but I am the world's runner-up who died like a dog, Mihael Keehl."_

Mello attaches the document.

Clicks send.

He remains motionless a moment longer, glories in his victory. However, time has little patience for Mihael Keehl and his selfish, joyful triumphs. It's time to get up.

He turns to Matt and shakes him.

"Come on."

Groaning, the redhead pulls himself into a sitting position. His eyes remain strangely un-fogged with slumber. Perhaps he has not slept at all. Either way, he turns to Mello with a sardonic grin.

They are both ready.

They are both afraid.

They have both never regretted anything more in their entire lives.

* * *

**-TOT**

**A/N: Originally, I was going to stop writing fanfiction (and I'm very sorry to the readers I have, until now, let down completely). However, I got back into Death Note in a bad way after my first quarter in college and, since I hate leaving things unfinished, decided to complete this fic. **

**The L/monster quote is taken directly from the English dub of _Death Note Relight: L's Successors _****(which isn't very good except for a couple deleted scenes)****_. _****I've seen other translations of this scene out there (check Youtube), but this one struck me as the most creepy. I don't necessarily think L is a monster. However, assuming L thinks so about himself offers interesting insight into his character.**

**Also, what Mello typed at the end of the chapter is taken directly (with minimal editing on my part in the interests of characterization and smoother reading) from the prologue to _Death Note: Another Note._**

**I know I don't deserve them after going so long without updating, but reviews are appreciated and will thankful responses! I'm interested to read readers' insights into Matt and Mello's characters.**

**I'll have the final chapter out ASAP!**


	7. The Departure

**St Michael and the Damned Apostle**

_"Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." _

_Jesus; Matthew 19:14_

**Part 7: The Departure**

**

* * *

**

When she wakes, Hal Lidner checks her cell phone for messages. She takes a shower. She makes sure her handgun is still hidden inside the top drawer of her bureau. Then she sits down to check her email.

And blanches in surprise.

A message:

_"Dear Near—"_

No body to the message. However, there is an attachment.

Hal moves to open the document, hesitates, and instead clicks 'Forward.'

* * *

Time's up…

_Bang._

Blood. Red like his hair, like his bullet-riddled car. Indistinguishable. Therefore, the same.

For the instant of life that remains after he is shot, Matt feels nothing but astonishment. He is astonished not by what has happened. That he has been murdered needlessly and in a state of defenselessness is not what the hacker finds surprising—for he understands already the viciousness of human nature. No, what takes Matt for a spin is the pain…the bright, sharp agony of bullets punching holes into his flesh.

If he could look back after the finality that is death, Matt would undoubtedly wish his last thoughts were of Mello and not his own, petty physicality. However, the instant between the fatal blow and death is too brief.

Even in death, Matt does not have time enough.

He falls.

And the cigarette slips from his bleeding lips

* * *

_Ba-bump. B-ba…ba…_

Mello shoves the crucifix aside to grasp at his chest as his heart lurches to a standstill. He has been expecting this to happen at any moment. However, he's still frightened and regrets desperately that he will die alone. A rushing sound fills his ears, and Mello can no longer hear Takada crying.

But what is this clanging sound that pierces through his oxygen-leeched rush towards death?

They're in an old church.

A Catholic church.

Perhaps what Mello hears…

_…is bells._

_

* * *

_

Matt's stomach clenches with nauseous excitement as he drives slowly towards Takada and her entourage. He's three blocks away.

Two blocks.

Matt unrolls the driver's window and lights his final cigarette. The breeze that enters the cab chills his sweat, causing the redhead to shudder sickly despite his long-sleeved shirt and vest.

One.

Matt holds his breath and eases more weight onto the gas pedal. Clutching the smokescreen device in one gloved hand, he feels the vehicle accelerating until…

Slam on the brakes and jerk the wheel to the right.

Fishtail just a little.

Point the gun.

Pull the trigger.

And get the hell out.

Not waiting to see if Mello locates Takada, Matt stomps on the acceleration and goes off screeching down the street. He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his eardrums. Jaw tense from fear and concentration, he's bitten clean through the filter of his cigarette.

_I did it._

For a brief, absolutely transcendent moment the hacker basks in his success. He's played his part to perfection, completed the impossible talk assigned to him. Now everything is up to Mello. All he has to do is…

…is escape.

* * *

Mello slips easily into Takada's entourage. Dressed all in black and riding a similarly colored motorcycle, he fits the mold of lackey. The helmet hides his blond hair and conspicuous scars. He is currently about three blocks from the news building. The entourage moves briskly, at a speed that is neither overly slow nor fast but that exudes a sense of efficiency.

Two blocks.

Same speed. Mello feels a tightening in his gut and takes comfort in the coldness of the steel handcuffs pressed flush against his abdomen. He's tucked them in his pants beside his gun out of habit, a need to have something frigid always next to him.

One.

The line of black, official vehicles starts to slow, and with this lessened movement Mello's mind begins to calm itself. He remembers feeling this way on particularly harrowing Mob jobs, during difficult tests at Wammy's: a curious detachment of emotion. There is the Mello that does and the Mello that feels…and right now they are not the same.

The Mello that does pulls up and, despite the heavy smoke of Matt's diversion, locates Takada. He indicates for her to climb on the bike behind him and—thanks to Lidner—she does.

The Mello that feels can only sigh in relief at Matt's success.

Pulling out into traffic, the blonde rides easily in front of three of the news anchor's escort vehicles. This is the easy part, the five minutes between this spit of city concrete and the dark little alley through which he has mapped his escape. Mello can feel Takada trembling against him but doesn't have it in him to feel bad for her.

_This is what happens when you pick the losing side._

And maybe this is cruel, but Mello knows—as do and did Near and Matt and L and of course Kira—that every game must have a loser if it is also able to be won.

_What am I then?_ The blonde smirks. He will neither win nor lose this time…but he will decide who does. In this contest Mello acts as judge…as a God of liars as surely as Kira is a God of justice.

The only difference is that Kira will pay with his soul…Mello, just his life.

The Mello that feels wonders why this thought isn't more comforting.

The Mello that does grins like a madman and pulls a sharp left into darkness.

* * *

Matt has never been more afraid. He careens madly down Tokyo's crowded streets, his car brilliantly red, a beacon of nonconformity cutting through a sea of blacks and grays and whites.

_What is it with people? So afraid of attracting Kira's attention that they refuse even to live in color?_

However, even as he says this to himself, Matt cannot help but be empathetic. After all, before joining Mello wasn't he such a coward? In a way, he still is. The hacker generates no true color of his own. Anything he has is borrowed from something brighter.

_I sure hope Mello is okay. _

Even in the shadow of death, Matt will go down swinging. He doesn't think he can win; one might argue that he's made sure he won't. However, whether because of overriding instinct or the influence Mello's stubborn nature, Matt—though resigned—refuses to succumb just yet.

He'll die when he damn well wants to.

Behind the hacker, black cars advance like the monster in his nightmare. If Matt believed in Fate, if he believed any anything at all ethereal, he might be unnerved by this…but Matt does not believe in God or Satan, Heaven or Hell. Magic, he concedes, must exist: How else does one explain the Death Note? However, there is no reason to infer that this magic is of divine origins. Even the shinigami, the gods of death, are only gods because humans label them as such.

Hoping to lose his pursuers in a maze of traffic, the redhead swerves onto a normally crowded main street. _Damn it. _Immediately, he realizes his mistake. Takada's lackeys reacted more efficiently than he anticipated. All major roads in Tokyo have been closed to vehicles. Matt is alone, racing down an empty stretch of concrete.

There are smaller roads on either side, but he's moving too fast to turn on them. All he can do is race forward towards the roadblock he knows awaits him.

Search lights ahead. Spectrum distorted by Matt's tinted goggles, they appear curiously red.

Knowing he can't break through the line of cars and gun-toting flesh in front of him, Matt jerks on the wheel and comes to a semi-controlled, swerving stop. The cars pursuing him complete the noose-like circle around the hacker and his errant vehicle. On all sides he is now hemmed in by monsters. This is the locked door that stands blood red at the end of the hall.

_This is it._

_Will I be the first to go?_

Matt wonders if Mello is still alive, if he will make it to the church or if Takada will kill him first. _He'll make it. That woman's too much of a coward to kill him while he's driving. _

Outside, Matt can hear Takada's—_Kira's_—drones demanding that he exit the vehicle. They aren't promising not to shoot. Matt's throat is too dry to swallow. All he can do is puff nervously on his cigarette. In five seconds he will get out. It will be written off later as a lapse in judgment, as the result of taking for granted human logic and human decency, but the truth is that the hacker knows already he will not be spared. He will present his reasonable case—why he should not be killed—and, quite unreasonably, he will be cut down all the same. He will bleed out quickly, and he will die.

_I should have worn the vest._

He should have, but Matt's glad he didn't. Whether because he really does have a death wish or simply wishes to spite Mello and his own resignation to demise, Matt is not wearing the blonde's morbid parting gift.

Time's up.

Matt gets out of the car and faces the glinting, steel maws in front of him. He raises his arms in submission, smiles with a little too much confidence. He wonders if Mello would ever believe that he could be so brave.

"You won't kill me. I'm a suspect with valuable information about the kidnapping of Naomi Takada."

_Bang._

_

* * *

_

"Get in the van."

Holding Takada at gunpoint, Mello watches the woman climb fearfully into the back of the stolen moving van. He doesn't feel bad for her, not one bit.

The blonde climbs in behind her and does something both calculated and very, very stupid.

He takes off his helmet…

…and let's her see his face.

This his how it must be. If Mello survives, he will be nothing but Near's pawn…but if he dies…if he dies he will be sanctified. He will transcend the menial game pieces of this checkerboard existence and become something altogether different…holy even.

At least, this is what Mello's experience of religion tells him.

So he takes off his helmet and smirks internally at the almost imperceptible widening of his hostage's eyes.

"Take your clothes off." He wonders where she's keeping the scrap of Note that will be the end of him. In her bra? Her panties? Or maybe…

"Let me…let me have the blanket."

_Somewhere in her underwear, then._

Mello tosses her the blanket and waits until all of Takada's clothing is in the cardboard box. Then, he locks her up, puts the box in a different truck, and returns to begin the forty-five minute drive to the abandoned Catholic church. The blonde picked this church because, should anything happen to his body, he wants to be certain that Near still _knows._

_How's Matt doing, I wonder?_

Mello switches on the van's dashboard television, and his breath catches uncomfortably in his throat.

Matt's car riddled with bullets. No body to be seen.

_I'm sorry._

He really is.

_I didn't think you would die._

Not this soon. Not this brutally.

_Why didn't you wear the fucking vest?_

For the same reason he took off his helmet.

_Goddamn it. Mattie…_

Grinding his teeth in frustration and a profound sense of grief, Mello turns off the television and continues driving. He knew that Matt would die. However, what the blonde did not know was how terribly responsible he would feel for this. _It's my fault. _There's no getting around it. _He died for me. _

This realization, this cruel and brutally unavoidable moment of anagnorisis overshadows completely Mello's triumph over Near. For the first time the blonde is forced to confront the fact that the end of his plot does not come close to justifying the means. Matt's life—his life as well—are worth more than victory.

But it is too late.

Mello will continue with his plans because if he doesn't…

…if he doesn't Matt will have died in vain…which is the only thing worse than dying for a stupid, pointless, selfish cause.

The church is ahead. Mello slows and pulls up beneath its largest archway. He turns off the ignition, laces his fingers around his rosary, and waits.

Forty seconds.

_Ba-bump. B-ba…ba…_

_

* * *

_

Matt and Mello stand together on the deserted street of the slummy neighborhood their apartment occupies. Matt has just assured the blonde that he's wearing the vest. Mello knows he's lying. Still, he stops himself from forcibly checking beneath the hacker's clothing to make sure. They both take a moment to enjoy the chill winter air, the familiar comfort of each other's company. Matt's goggles are pushed up and he isn't smoking. Mello handles neither gun nor chocolate.

"We should get go…"

The redhead's words are cut off abruptly as Mello grabs him suddenly by the shoulders and closes the three feet of space between their nervous bodies. Their foreheads touch and, though they make no move to kiss, the two men have never felt closer. They stand like this for maybe fifteen seconds, holding each other in a silence that is broken only by their harsh, smoke-scarred breathing. Something passes between them, something no external force can define or pick at.

Then Mello jerks just as suddenly away. He doesn't know why, but looking at Matt is very painful. "You're right. Let's go," he says, staring determinedly at his clenched fists. "Our time's run out."

"Yeah." Mat rolls his eyes at the blonde's awkwardness but can't help smiling just a little. "Good luck."

Matt climbs into his idling car.

Mello swings a leg over his motorcycle and slips his key in the ignition.

They drive away in opposite directions. Neither looks behind him.

The apartment and the evidence it holds they've left intact. It stands as a testament to who they are and what they did…and what they will do very soon. Almost artistic in its bluntness, theirs' is a message that screams 'fuck you' to whoever finds it.

Maybe they're cheating…but still, they've managed to come out on top.

* * *

**-UsuakariTOT**

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed the ending. I couldn't resist pulling a 'Pulp Fiction' and screwing with the plot sequence. I just feel that the most important dramatic climax (or in this case, anticlimax) is Matt and Mello's goodbye, not their deaths (because we already know what happens), so I decided to put it at the very end. Also, I didn't want to make their parting a stereotypically mushy "I love you!!!!" one because Matt and Mello are neither a stereotypical nor mushy couple. **

**_Also_**** (I just can't seem to shut up), the mixed messages over their deaths and perceptions of their deaths are intentional. I wanted to convey that, though they claimed they had no choice in the matter, Matt an Mello were in fact both completely in control of whether or not they died and that (if their stubborn personalities weren't part of the equation) their deaths were completely avoidable. I think that they died so pointlessly (albeit of their own volition) makes the story a bit more tragic.**

**Anyway, thanks for listening. Also, PLEASE REVIEW. It's kind of a bummer to put so much work into something and not get any feed back.**

**THANKS!**


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